


The Different

by threnodyjones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ethnic War, F/M, Genocide, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Native American Character, Norse Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:06:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threnodyjones/pseuds/threnodyjones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When I was a boy, this world was young. The Creator had parted sky from water, but nothing else existed. With a breath, light came into being. Soon land and plants followed. </i>
</p><p>  <i>When I was an old man, I saw a thunderbird turn into a spider.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Different

**Author's Note:**

> **Link to art:** <http://satavaisa.livejournal.com/22914.html>
> 
>  
> 
> **Notes and Acknowledgments:**
> 
>  
> 
> I owe a massive thanks to Fussyhedgehog and Cat_77 for all they had to put up with while I was writing this, from random e-mails at o'dark thirty to telephone conversations that suddenly went awry to me finally disappearing, reappearing only to ask a question related to the story and then disappear again. I think I thanked them when I did that... I hope I did. They both deserve it.
> 
> I cannot say enough nice things about the amazing and unbelievably talented [satavaisa](http://satavaisa.livejournal.com) and the work she did. Please let her know even the smallest bit of feedback, because she deserves it. From the amazing title banner to the gorgeous and lush scene pictures she did, I can't look away! Satavaisa, thank you so much for choosing my prompt and doing all this beautiful work! Cat_77 did a heroic turnaround on the beta for this, and Fussyhedgehog kept pushing me and giving me encouragement and at one point alcohol. Without them this story probably wouldn't have been finished, let alone in time for the Big Bang deadlines.
> 
> Gratitude and a story dedication must also be delivered to (Sn)Odin. Back in December, I sent out a plaintive cry for it to Stop Snowing for just two small weeks so I could work on _The Different_. When I made that plea, we were expecting another 10". 
> 
> End Notes are available at the end of the story, but beware, for they are full of spoilers. And history stuff.
> 
> The title comes from the Melissa Etheridge song _The Different_. It can currently be heard here: [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlww15DpyYs](http://anonym.to/?http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlww15DpyYs). If you want to know where my headspace was while writing, just take a listen.

Being a prophet... sucked.

This wasn't a new revelation. More like something rediscovered after an eon of forgetfulness.

It wasn't the foresight. It wasn't the intimate knowledge of things he shouldn't possibly be witness to. It was the caring. It was watching Anna's anguish, her fall and then her crumbling and then her eventual destruction. It was watching Castiel losing his faith, his hope and purpose, watching him struggle to maintain a new faith, a new reason for pushing on. It was seeing Zachariah's perfidy and sanctimony. Feeling Raphael's hopeless blindness to duty.

He wrote about Gabriel dying 17 days before it happened. He'd cried so hard he'd actually wrenched a muscle, because Gabriel had had the right of it. He'd understood long before and he'd finally made an outright declaration, siding against everybody but humanity. Flawed, disastrous humanity.

Because this wasn't a story about Heaven and Hell and the Apocalypse. It was a love story. A story about Family and Devotion and ultimately, Free Will. And love of all of them.

Castiel had been brought back for maybe less than that. Maybe just as much. Chuck still didn't know where Gabriel would sit in the grand scheme of things.

But he could hope. He could even pray.

Would he have stopped it? No. Because all of this obviously had to be seen out to the end. From the instant Castiel had been swayed by the passion of Dean and his brother, from the moment he'd chosen to cast away all he'd known for the absolute uncertainty of a freely chosen future, everything was in flux. Once it had been written, but now it had been unwritten and the slate was clean. Fate had been sent packing, with a (pardon the expression) hellish screech of denial.

Dean made choices. And Sam made choices. And Castiel made choices. And Bobby and Crowley and Lucifer made choices. And flawed or not, they had _been choices._ No divine intervention. No Word. Pure, unadulterated freedom. Thought, action. What everybody had been fighting for or against from the beginning of this whole mess.

It was beautiful and pure and ugly and it was hopefully the best thing he could ever hope for. Humanity sucked and humanity rocked and the best thing he'd ever hoped for was a happy medium where as many good people survived as possible.

Because it was all about choices and decisions, wasn't it?

 

Before the Big Showdown - which really, was before the Big Showdown had been Revealed - Chuck hit an amusement park. One of the dying shows, still family run (barely) despite the corporate dominance of the industry. Carnies didn't really exist anymore, not like they'd done. Not with that fierce independence that had once ruled the day, where the performers belonged to each other, because a family chosen was still a family, despite blood.

This was the last of them, for a long, long time. And as he was leaving, Chuck went up to the manager, a man nobody would ever have guessed as holding the reigns to the entire show, and Chuck thanked him.

Chuck didn't say more than that. Didn't thank him for the spectacle, or the holding together of a dying (dead) tradition. Just gave him his silent hope that it would all last until it was time for it to die.

The cotton candy had tasted delicious under the stars.

He broke up with Becky the next day. Because Becky, too, had made choices. Choices that were to be respected, reverenced. No matter the outward puerility, the irreverence or seeming immaturity, she was always about her own decisions, her own beliefs.

Becky knew who she was and what she wanted. That she loved Sam and absolutely adored the world within the world that he (Chuck, not Sam, ironically) had brought to life had nothing to do with it. She would sometimes hate her job, love her friends, and never regret the house she'd purchased without any help but the hours she worked at a job that didn't fulfill her but nonetheless provided for a life that she was happy with. Becky would always be happy with half-truths, because as much as she believed, those truths weren't hers. She would always live in her own world, and be happy for it; and wasn't that the crux of it all?

One thing Chuck could say: after everything? Nobody's reality was greater than anybody else's. The End.

But it wasn't, really, was it?

Because Sam's wasn't Dean's wasn't Castiel's wasn't Lucifer's wasn't Michael's wasn't Chuck's and wasn't Becky's.

Back to that free will thing.

War and Famine hadn't been so much into that. Pestilence was just old enough to start to get it, before two upstart humans and a mostly humanized angel had gotten the better of Him. Death though, Death knew the score. Of course He did. He was just as old (if not older) than anything else that existed or ever had. Death understood choice (He also understood good pizza and the value of a good bargain). He understood it perfectly, even choice under coercion. Because even though you've heard it before: no, really: choice is Choice. Even if you hate it, even if you reject its very fundamentals, it's still Choice. There really is another option, every time.

He also understood that both before, and after, Choice, came Fate. Chicken and Egg. Who's to say, really? Certainly not Chuck. And if he were to guess? Not Death, either.

Maybe life really was a crap shoot, and the answer really 42. Adams hadn't really meant that in the end, but who was to say it wasn't actually some sort of revelation shining through? It showed up often enough.

All the time, actually. It amused him to realize that as he sat down to record the final volume of the Winchesters, he opened his 42nd bottle of bourbon. Who knows how many bottles of beer, wine, or other liquors in between, but this, the most important bottle, would see him through the end.

He poured a glass, drank some down, savoring the taste. The label was turned. He'd mentally removed it weeks ago. Whatever he was drinking would go down anonymously just like every other bottle he'd consumed. (The End, the Beginning, Change... they weren't necessarily so hot seen through sober eyes.) This story, the story of life, of death, of time and the entirety of the universe... It was still about Dean and Sam and the journey they'd taken, the steps they'd individually and congregationally chosen. But there was a more important story to be told. Something about family and what family ultimately meant.

Chuck booted up his computer. It was a good machine; well built. Would eventually find its way into the ownership of a housewife from Indiana who would one day give it to her daughter when she left for Stanford, the same college Sam had almost made a go at, once upon a time.

_On April 21st, 1967, the 100th million GM vehicle rolled off the line at the plant in Janesville. A blue, two-door Caprice. There was a big ceremony, speeches. The Lieutenant Governor even showed up. Three days later another car rolled off that same line...  
_

 

"I would have met you elsewhere. Wherever you wanted," he said when the man joining him had seated himself. He watched thin hands take hold of the wine and carefully pour some into a waiting glass.

"And yet here we are," his companion stated blandly. He supposed it was true, after a fashion.

Crowds bustled around them; Paris on a precipice, 19131 in all its glory. A waiter swung round and he ordered them another bottle of wine, some bread and cheese. They sat in silence until everything was delivered, and eventually they ate and drank without comment.

He was cradling his glass of wine, staring aimlessly, when words distracted him.

"Why are you dithering so?"

He looked over. "A lot's changed." His eyes were drawn to the centerpiece of the table, a small candle holder, its contents ethereal in the sunlight.

"And yet, you're the one who set the whole mess in motion."

"That's not true," he denied immediately.

"Yes, it is. You and I have always known how this would turn out without... a guiding hand. You may hope and dream as much as you wish. I choose not to be so self-deluded."

"There has to be a point where everybody can learn," Chuck insisted.

"Nothing can learn without an outside influence."

Chuck said nothing, went back to watching the life of the street. The scent of the river became stronger as a gust of wind blew the smells of fish and living water their direction.

"You're quite the coward these days, aren't you?" Death had leaned forward to catch Chuck's sudden anger head on. "He learned the lesson you couldn't be bothered to teach. And yet here you sit, his life at hand, vacillating. Your pettiness staggers."

Death sat back in his seat, smoothing out the lines of the tablecloth. Chuck held his gaze for a protracted moment, where their surroundings started  
to fall into disarray, melting away in the peripheral.

"There are concerns to be considered," he said. A scoff was his response.

"There you are, deluding yourself once again." The world realigned itself with them. A napkin was negligently tossed from lap to table and Chuck watched Death pull out a pocket watch, flip it open and note the time.

"Are you staying?" he asked, honestly curious.

"Of course. The vintage is excellent and the music is quite lovely." Precise movements placed watch back in pocket, gathered up coat and walking stick.

"YHMH2," Chuck said. "It's been good seeing you again."

"YHWH. Do him at least the courtesy of letting him know his uncle loves him," he said as he walked away into the city.

The candle was gone.

Chuck topped off his wine glass and took another drink.

 

>   
> 
> 
> _When I was a boy, this world was young. The Creator had parted sky from water, but nothing else existed. With a breath, light came into being. Soon land and plants followed. Both grew strong, strong enough to give shelter and sustenance to the creatures who would soon live upon the Mother Earth._
> 
> _When I was an old man, I saw a thunderbird turn into a spider._

The wards shifted and resettled while he was in a meeting, and within instants he heard the racing clatter of his guards moving towards the front entrance.

His girl gurgled at him, struggling for air through the mess of blood and pain she was trapped in. 'Meeting' had been a charming euphemism for slowly ripping the throat out of a medium-level turncoat who'd once upon a dream thought shopping around for a new employer was a good use of her time.

Every warning mark and defense sigil were still empowered, merely... changed in some way that made them feel decidedly different. Crowley glanced at her appraisingly, wondering for a brief moment if she perhaps had friends who were actually trying to stage a rescue.

He sliced his knife through her, only to think better of it as he watched the body spasm with electric death. This one hadn't had anybody that brave or that foolish, and he'd just wasted a perfectly good object lesson.

Well, then. Best find what had caused his distraction.

 

Turned out, even a life planned eight steps ahead could still be tossed the random curve ball.

If the suspicious lack of demons hadn't given anything away, the radical temperature drop as he approached the exterior walls would have.

And, of course, the bolts of electricity flaring through windows and walls and doors.

He cycled through his mental bestiary and then flung open the front doors to an outside world that looked more like the center of a plasma sphere than a carefully maintained garden. At the center of the tumult stood a male figure.

"If you've come to talk to me," he shouted over the noise, "may I suggest a less flashy approach?" He tried to push back against the light, but there was an uncomfortably strong aura of sheer _power_ and no discernible effect from his subtlety. And then the roar died down, not completely away, but...

 _Loki_ , he thought, as he watched more arcs of pure energy stream from Loki's body into the earth.

Gabriel rather.

Alive. Alive and barely contained within his vessel, it looked like.

Gabriel looked up, catching Crowley's gaze, and while Gabriel's body looked to be unharmed, Crowley wouldn't be laying any bets on whatever was going on behind his eyes.

"Make you a deal." Gabriel's voice was flat, raspy. Inflection completely off. Timing as well, as the moment stretched out, like he had forgotten what he was going to say.

"What's that, then?" Crowley prompted quietly, perfectly still. Not entirely certain how this was going to fall if he was being honest with himself. A few more moments passed before Gabriel seemed to realize it was his turn to respond.

"Won't kill you if you give me a place to stay for a while." More of the turbulent electricity punctuated a familiar refrain, and Crowley watched Gabriel close his eyes, apparently making a willful attempt to reign himself in. It was rather disquieting how difficult it seemed to be.

"Well," Crowley said, finally opening the door wider. "You best be coming inside."

***

Crowley settled Gabriel in the north wing, issuing orders that the area was off limits and to be guarded against intrusion of any source. He locked the doors, personally warding the walls, the floors, and ceilings with meticulous care and energy. Some of the sigils he didn't recognize, but after having studied what had obviously done to the exterior lines, Crowley had incorporated Gabriel's derivative artwork and called it a night. Research could wait.

***

Transitioning a company from one business model to something new was a canker. Every time. Change models could be made, implemented, even go smoothly - and employees would still fuss, worried about their jobs, their status, their pathetic non-lives.

You would have to deal with the old guard faction who kept trying to do things the way they'd always been done, but who knew their stuff and were too valuable to excise _en masse_. Or the new guard, who always thought they could do so much better and wouldn't listen to reason, but they were hungry and innovative because of it. Or the lazy in-betweens, who were only in it not to be noticed, but usually did 70% of the grunt work that the others wouldn't do.

It didn't exactly help that the company had been extant from the dawn of time and the workforce pool wasn't exactly the cream of the crop.

His current Chief of Acquisitions was one called Dümmler, which meant little more than Crowley trusted him to be greedy enough to enforce discipline amongst the crossroads demons seeing as he got a percentage of souls received. That he was taking a cut beyond the allocated amount because he thought Crowley was ignorant actually worked in Dümmler's favor since it meant that he seriously underestimated Crowley and would be easy to dispose of when a suitable replacement was found and still make Crowley look appealing to the underlings subject to Dümmler's heavy hands.

Meaning he could stay for a while. Though having to meet with him over his errors was rapidly shortening that invisible timeframe.

"... he and I were going to work the bars, like we always do. But he didn't show up. At first I thought maybe he'd got a deal out on the streets, but he still didn't show. I reported to Falcone in the morning," said the girl in front of him. She was a younger one, liked wearing teenagers. Had a fetish for the sexually depraved and would almost certainly end up in Entrapments before she was through.

"And I suppose there were no... comments that were overheard?" he asked her, eyes flicking towards Dümmler, who stood just behind her.

She shook her head, "Nothing I heard."

Crowley was fairly certain she was telling the truth. "Alright, you can go." She vanished immediately. Crowley looked to Dümmler. "This is your third in two weeks. I hope you aren't doing a bit of unauthorized purging. I would _hate_ to have to look into something like that."

"I'm _not_... Sir." Crowley forced down the smirk as Dümmler tried to cover his close call. He raised an eyebrow instead. "It's not hunters. I've had people looking into it and there are no traces of any nearby. I brought Haya to you because she might have seen something."

"You should have brought Haya to me if she _had_ seen something. Right now she was just a waste of my time. Bring me proof that they're dead and that the situation is handled. Because right now it may as well have been..." _Angels_ , he paused slightly at the thought and then continued, "...the ghost of Potterlea Road. Any more sudden disappearances are coming out of you. Get out of here."

Dümmler vanished. Crowley was left to his thoughts.

Here it was over a week later, and he was just realizing more than a week had passed.

The entire north end of the house had been completely abandoned, and as he walked the empty hallway his clacking footfalls echoed off the walnut planks of the floor. Midway to his destination he found a plate of rotting food and several glasses with evaporate remnants, and while the untidiness caused irritation to bubble through him, it was nonetheless high proof that his orders had been obeyed immediately and without question.

He took care of the dishes himself, frowning at the cool ambient temperature. 'Stay out' hadn't meant 'turn off the utilities', though idiots often opened all sorts of things up to interpretation.

Crowley stopped at the sixth layer of wards.

When he'd set the wards, he'd established seven distinct layers. Nothing in a million years that would have been any sort of defense or trap against Gabriel, but to just about anything or anybody else? Wards to keep things in, to keep things out. Wards that would inveigle, wards that would obfuscate. He'd set them in blood and carving, straight into the fabric of the house.

But the sixth layer looked... melted. The worst of the lot was at knee level, warped and runny like turpentine had been taken to it and then forgotten. Intact, but severely weakened. He remade the wards, the violated grain of the wood roughly chafing under his fingertips.

He searched carefully for any signs of tampering, found nothing. But the change between the fourth and the third layers was... drastic. Tiny fractals of ice demarcated the ward lines. Minuscule shards covered everything beyond it, growing thicker the deeper Crowley progressed. His ears actually popped as he stepped into the second layer, and the temperature plummeted.

He wasted no time getting to the room he'd left Gabriel in.

The bronze knobs burned his hands when he touched them, whatever tiny moisture on his skin freezing on contact. He pushed on the door, breaking the final ward and the instant it happened his breath ripped out of his lungs. They seized on him the moment he tried to take in more air and he _quite literally_ felt his lungs freezing before he ducked his head back around the door.

"Gabriel!" he called out. He thought he was ready when he turned back in.

Gabriel lay in the center of a frozen room, splayed out on the floor, facedown, nude. His eyes were closed, his body barely breathing. "Loki!" Crowley tried again, and when there was still no response he gave up. He managed two more steps inside the room, the floor creaking ominously, before he felt the body he was in start to seize up beyond even what he could overcome. He huffed in frustration and was utterly distracted by the vapor from his breath turning not into foggy ice crystals but... tiny droplets.

Crowley looked around the room. Along the periphery, the walls, the floor and ceiling, ice crystals scaled anything they could. Gabriel lay in a thin circle of ice, covered in what might have been dust, but he doubted it. Between the two of them was an outlier circle that looked... oddly wet.

He wondered at that for a moment, then he popped over just long enough to scoop some of the liquid up and popped back. It spit and balled and danced right out of his freezing hand, whatever it was. Nitrogen, oxygen. Maybe both. He watched it muddle on the floor for a bit until it dissipated.

"I'll just go turn off the heat for you, then," he said. Gabriel didn't respond, just kept on sleeping.

It did occur to him, though, that he'd just learned some wards protected against drastic heat loss. Who knew?

 

For 82 days Gabriel slept.

Crowley looked in on him once a week.

***

>   
> 
> 
> _Creator had four sons, whom he loved dearly. They were named Purpose, Devotion, Truth, and Wholeness. Purpose, because the earth needed purpose to move forward. Devotion, for purpose without merit would come to no good. Truth, for truth of all helps balance both purpose and devotion in man's deeds, and allows one to constantly move forward and keep to a strong path. And Wholeness, that bound everything together. So it was with the Creator's sons, who were earliest amongst all the things made by the Creator's own hands. They were entrusted with the memory of the Great Father's deeds, and he called upon them to remember everything he did. 3_  
> 

Crowley wasn't actually sure when Gabriel woke, though invoking the word 'woke' was perhaps overstating things. One day the cold had significantly eased. One day he'd walked in and Gabriel's eyes blinked open before going back to resting.

He started dropping in every day. Rarely said anything, seeing as there was nothing to say. Gabriel rarely acknowledged him. Sometimes his eyes opened. Sometimes the cold let up enough that Crowley could get within a yard of him. That was the extent of their conversations.It was horrifically unnatural to see Loki this still, this exanimate.

Crowley scoffed at himself more than once, because he could imagine what Loki's response would be.

_("Aw, look at you, Crowley," he would say. "You're getting practically sentimental. Hope it's not contagious. We should go kill somebody just to make sure. There's a police officer in D.C. who thinks it's fun to rape underage prostitutes. Let's go play. You can even have him when I'm finished.")  
_

It didn't stop him from going in, though.

 

It went on like that for weeks.

 

Eventually Crowley started talking to him.

Admittedly, it was mostly short bursts of overwhelming anger. It started after he taken a phone call a few steps into Gabriel's room. He'd stepped back outside, back into the third layer wards. Gabriel overhearing something was moot. The demon on the other end was a different matter.

However, the demon on the other end was a moron, so maybe it wouldn't have mattered.

He was sour when he walked back in, spent a good five minutes ranting over a lump of flesh on the floor. When he realized that he shut up. Texted some instructions to Moron's leader. Dealt with a few more idiotically pedantic things. He half expected biting commentary from the peanut gallery sleeping on the floor.

_("You've gone upper management on me?" he would say, and Crowley would barely have time to roll his eyes before he'd go on with, "I know you've sold your soul to your job, but that's just stupid."_

_He might take another jab, another caustic swipe and then he'd pull out a bottle of something exquisite, something possibly not even made yet, and proceed to get the two of them stinkingly sotted.)  
_

When he'd put down the phone he'd noticed Gabriel staring at him. Not blankly, but there'd been no interest. Crowley left then.

 

He was back the next day, though. He talked again for a while. ****

One time he decided to be adventurous.

It was the warmest the room had been since Gabriel had arrived, and Crowley was sitting inches away from him. Freezing, even with the heat Crowley was putting out, but it was the closest he'd been able to get thus far.

"Let me touch you," he requested quietly. And even though there was no response from Gabriel, he reached out towards the mess of hair, vaguely stringy and definitely unkempt. He let his fingers sort through it, feathering the strands into a semblance of decorum.

The chill had eased off significantly, but his fingers still came back frozen.

Still. It was something.

>   
> 
> 
> _The Great Spirit afterwards looked over his favored creation, and desired to give it a precious gift. It was the realization that they create their own reality. But he knew that knowledge of such a thing could be dangerous, and so he wished to hide it from them until they were ready. Creator gathered around him all who had come before and told them this. One suggested hiding the gift in the deepest of waters. "They will find it too soon there," Creator said. Another said that burying it in the furthest cave would keep this gift safe. "There, too," said Creator. Again and again places were offered, each more remote than the last, until finally the distant stars of the skies were offered, but that too the Great Spirit rejected, saying in his wisdom, "There they will also travel."_
> 
> _And with these words all fell silent, for if the oceans and earth and skies were not sufficient, there was nothing more to suggest. All the world was quiet, until one more voice spoke up._
> 
> _"Put it inside them."_
> 
> _This was Grandmother Mole, who had always been blind of sight, but wise of heart._
> 
> _Creator heard her words, and he said, "It is done."_  
>   
>  4

While he and Gabriel had their conversations in the languages of heat and cold, Crowley was still dealing with the fallout of his coup. Some days were better than others. Some days got to see his plans inching forward creep by unlauded creep.

Some days heralded nightmares that truly could only have been born of Hell.

There were blessed few of the old, old guard left in Hell. Lilith and Azazel had conducted a purge so bloody, so thorough, that it was nearly a shame it would never be recorded in any histories for posterity. The lessons that could have been learned...

Crowley had been an attaché for Lilith once the hardcore troublemakers had been deposed; a diplomatic liaison when times called for it, because Lilith, despite her many talents and reputations, only properly knew how to maintain control through complete subjugation. Crowley had made special effort to sway her towards keeping the more erudite dukes and princes, those old souls who brought a bit of dignity, a bit of gravitas and artistry, to being a demon.

They weren't the sort that subscribed to wholesale slaughter or found their religion in the pain of others. And they also weren't the sort to blindly follow Lilith to the maw of Lucifer. But they commanded hundreds of legions, and the pain of losing that stability they offered wasn't worth the headache. Or so went Crowley's contention to Lilith.

It had been an interesting dance to persuade all parties into an agreement. Several involved had been teachers, philosophical sparring partners, comrades. Layers and layers of negotiations had taken place, without words, without thoughts being exchanged.

And in the end, Crowley had had an immediately established power base once he'd ridded Hell of a few minor hiccoughs, because those agreements had been with him, not with Lilith. And most of those were interested in Crowley's long term plans. Doubtful, skeptical, but not unwilling to lend support if it meant colonizing a place that was neither Hell nor someplace that would draw unwanted attention.

The problems arose with those who had actually joined the fight because they'd thought Heaven was a _good_ target.

The Watchers, some of whom where unfortunately still around, loathed any who weren't of their number or their half-breed spawn. But they'd been and still were fanatically loyal to Lucifer (and so Lilith's cause), which Crowley to this _day_ still did not get, because from what he understood of the rumor mill Lucifer at best had been a post-facto figurehead to rally round. It wasn't like he'd ever done anything for them.

To them, human-born demons were cannon-fodder to be wasted futilely trying to conquer Heaven, or in the meantime, Earth.

Other days brought far more interesting developments.

***

Everybody froze when the lights flickered and dimmed. The power grid made a valiant effort to reassert itself and then everything went dead, though Crowley felt an electrical static humming through the air, licking at his skin, eating away at all things incorporeal.

 _Damn it_ , he thought and slid over to the north wing.

The sigils were cracking, every ward on the property failing under an onslaught when he threw the doors to Gabriel's room wide and walked into a maelstrom.

Crowley slammed the doors closed behind him, hoping to preserve at least some of the lines from Gabriel's outburst. Gabriel, who was pacing the room like a caged predator. Hungry, angry. Deadly and uncontained. Pure energy wrestled from his vessel, lancing through another symbol, shattering the power guarding the room. Several support beams were rent as well, furniture destroyed.

Crowley yelled at Gabriel, shouted for his attention. Dodged the shadows of power that came too close since he didn't want to chance what they could do to him. "Damn it, I can't keep you hidden if destroy every bit of protection this house has!"

Gabriel turned towards him and Crowley flinched away. Gabriel resembled nothing so much as sheer, raw anthropomorphic _power_ right then and it hurt like hell to look at him, feel it buffeting him.

Nothing, cessation. Crowley staggered with the absence.

Gabriel stood in the middle of the room, chest heaving with panting breaths, suppressed emotion.

"He _killed_ me. My _brother_."

"I get it. I do." He changed course at the look Gabriel gave him, the _crackle_ in his eyes, in the walls behind Crowley that said Gabriel still wasn't entirely bottled. "Fine, I don't. But you are here and he is not and you need to _control_ yourself unless you want everything in a twelve thousand mile radius coming down on our heads."

He looked around the room. It was devastated, and he didn't want to chance telling Gabriel to fix it. He sighed and said, "Come on. Let's get you put on the east-"

And then the room was suddenly set to rights, everything back in its place, undamaged, unbroken. The wards were back, imbued again. Gabriel was sitting on a sofa, looking out a window.

"Well. At least you're tracking," he finished. Gabriel ignored him and he left, taking the long route back. The hallway was back to its former pristine condition, and Crowley didn't give a damn that the sigils were back, every one of them was touched with a energy foreign to his. So he redrew, recarved, and recreated them painstakingly.

Things were good for nearly a month, in that Gabriel was still prone to fits of unbridled wrath and seething rage, but he at least kept it contained within that particular room. Crowley's visits ebbed during that period since he had no desire to be around a frothing-at-the-mouth _anything_ that was vastly more powerful than he.

He didn't think he'd ever be entirely sure that his waned interest wasn't what sparked a minor bit of rebellion that turned into tinder for something much larger.

A set of demons broke into the north wing one evening while Crowley was distracted by his interrogations. They'd wrenched and muscled through every bit of protection until they'd cracked open the final door and come face to face with what they must have presumed would be a great prize.

Oops.

It had taken Crowley precious moments from the first intrusion to make his way to a location where he could slip from Chaing Mai back to his house, to Gabriel's wing and room. Not a great deal of time, but enough that half a dozen char stains on the floor and rugs and one very important ring had been all left; Gabriel, wearing a different face and body, paid no attention to his arrival, to anything other than the darkness outside the window.

But the departed must have belonged to or been sent by Glasyalabolas5 because less than half an hour later he was moving against Crowley with all his forces, no doubt because he'd thought Crowley was on to him and his bit of treachery. (Which he would have been, it turned out, had he been able to study the ring before the battles; it had belonged to one of Glasyalabolas's lieutenant-generals. Crowley was only upset he hadn't had the pleasure of watching Gabriel incinerate him.)

He ended up with another thirty legions under his direct control out of it, though with attrition they would almost certainly dwindle to twenty-five or thereabouts.

Gabriel, meanwhile, had stopped paying attention to _anything_ , let alone arrivals and departures. He had all but regressed to his prior state, though at least now he was focused out a window rather than the middle space of a subfloor.

_("All this concern is kind of precious, Crowley. Can I interest you in some drying paint, too? While you're at it and all.")_

Crowley felt a chasm widening when he visited, but he didn't have the time to try and draw him out like before. And frankly he had no idea how to when this behavior was the antithesis of the anger from before. For the most part, he had to let him be.

 

Most days.

 

Crowley walked into Gabriel's sanctum. He was ensconced in a window seat at the far end of the room, blindly staring out at the landscape or the horizon or the ants scaling the statuary. "Balthazar," Crowley said after securing the doors.

_("Gesundheit.")_

"He sent someone round today with an intriguing business proposition." He moved closer, stopping a good nine feet away, slipping his hands into his pockets.

_("Fo' schizzle? Didn't really expect the nut to fall and crack that way." Gabriel would certainly summon something rich or decadent at this point. "Probably bruised his ass on that first step.")_

The room remained silent. He felt Gabriel's regard shift to him, though. Nothing of substance, but rather like a metaphysical third eye opening up for a peer upon his person. It wasn't comfortable.

"Wouldn't mind your opinion, if you happen to have one."

_("You should take him out for a night on the town. Wet his whistle. Not that whistle. Can't imagine he'd be worth your time yet.")_

He had enough ears to the ground to know this one's pedigree, as it were. And as charming a prospect as aiding and abetting the sullying of a former soldier of the self-righteous Host was, business was business. He didn't have the time or the resources for a partnership to fall out.

Gabriel's head turned in the slightest of movement's towards Crowley, and for a moment a small spark of hope leapt inside him.

"He's a child," Gabriel said, voice perfect and oiled, quiet; not rusted from lack of use or emotion or anything that might indicate he was back amongst the living. Crowley felt the pressure of Gabriel's attention resettle once again to the world beyond the window.

Right. Opinion opined.

Time to go write a very cordial letter of decline.

He left the room and locked it behind him once again.

***

Scant weeks later a subversive little distraction suddenly turned into yet another proof that Murphy's Law was an ordained truth fed by a pernicious, malevolent universe.

He'd gone from the kirk to Montreal, one of his safe houses established after Lucifer's re-caging. The rooms were chill, empty of anything living, and ghostly white sheets covered the more delicate pieces of furniture.

Crowley set the valise with his bones down on a misplaced sofa table, orphaned in the middle of the room while its companion couch sat stored along the long wall. He took a moment to breathe, letting the table bear his sagging weight as he let out a long, controlled sigh.

Too close. Far, far too close. And how he could honestly not have seen that, _known_ that after so many years? Simple fucking cremation? What a joke.

It really was. An honest joke, and it made him laugh aloud, the ridiculousness of it all. He wondered if Alistair had ever searched for his bones. Azazel, probably. Malthas6, definitely. Malthas had despised him from the second they'd met, right up until Crowley had skinned him, cut out his heart, and taken control of his legions. And Crowey's bones had been so perfectly hidden that not even he could have chosen better. They all would have given up the fruitless search after centuries and not thought anything more of it.

And now humans had the ability to kill him without him even knowing. How utterly...

He took a deep breath. Obviously junior league was over and it was time to start playing by slightly different rules.

When he looked up Gabriel was staring at him.

He jolted and reached for the valise which was no longer on the table.

"Where- Give it back." Gabriel just looked at him. Didn't move, blink, breathe. An horrific icy rush crashed through him, there and gone in an instant. "Bring them back, damn it! Where did you put them!"

Crowley didn't get an answer. More expressionless staring, a tilted head. Then Gabriel was gone.

"WHERE DID YOU PUT THEM!"

The chandelier rattled and chinked and Crowley tried to catch his breath, stop himself from shaking at the complete vulnerability he was feeling. It wasn't Gabriel's voice running through his inner monologue right then, but old Ronove, with whom he'd had countless philosophical talks and conversations.

_("Is trust of the knife still trust? Is forced trust?" Old Ronove 7, who liked to paint with smoke and blood and philosophy._

_"That depends," he'd answered, "can I be killed outside of this forced trust?"_

_Ronove had smiled. "Oh, we can all be ended.")_

His phone buzzed and he grabbed it from his pocket, thumbed it on. "What _?_ " he ground out.

It was Ose.8 " _There are more._ " Crowley hit speaker and mute and listened to him talk, collected himself. " _Thirteen this time."_ He rubbed the hard plastic against his forehead. " _It's not humans. There was no stink of them there._ "

Crowley unmuted the line. "Where?"

" _Moskva_."

"Any names I'd care to recognize?" Ose began listing names one by one. "Wait. Rojelio and Anfri. They were at Carthage." Had been thorns in his side before, during, and after Lucifer.

" _Yes, they were. So were three from last month. I've been looking into pedigrees. Seven were disciples of Azazel or his children. Twelve of Lilith's. Other important and non assortments here and there. What was more intriguing were recent assignments. Carthage. Detroit. Henderson. Davenport. Chicago._ "

"My, my, my," Crowley murmured. Ose was silent. It did seem there was finally a pattern emerging. "There were some rare humans involved. Wouldn't it be interesting to see how they are faring."

" _You should come here. There's a smell I can't place. You may recognize it._ "

Crowley doubted it. Nobody came close to Ose. But it wouldn't hurt to see the remains. "I'm right around the corner."

He followed Ose's trail, up to a decently appointed third floor flat. He was standing amongst a rather grotesque display of bodies, laid out in some design or order before they'd been killed, perhaps. A few were bloated and discolored, like overfilled balloons with bulging pieces. Others had been ripped apart. The ripe orange tree by the wall seemed quite incongruous.

He squatted down by one of the corpses, looking it over. "Well. That doesn't look like it was a pleasant death. I really must find out who did this. There's such artistry." Ose had been right about the smell. He couldn't give it a source, like some overly complex perfume made of sky and earth and sea and elements.

"Crowley." Ose's voice was calm, assured, speaking pages in two syllables as his gaze never wavered from Crowley's.

"I know! _Fuck!_ What the hell is this thing?" He stood and started pacing before reining himself in. "If we can't handle something as simple as this we don't have a chance with Purgatory. Do you have any idea the things in there?"

"Some," Ose responded with amused benevolence. Crowley rolled his eyes; he probably deserved that tone. "And your guest?"

"What guest?" Crowley asked. He didn't doubt Ose had a strong inclination as to the what he was harboring, even if the who had escaped him. It didn't mean it was open for discussion.

"Hmm," Ose hummed, his mirth plain. Ose was always willing to play the game, comporting himself with gentlemanly refinement and discretion. So long as one was on his side, of course. It unfortunately meant (for others, seeing how Crowley had no intention of crossing Ose) that once an alliance was broken Ose usually knew all one's secrets and failings.

"And besides, it would be cheating if I asked."

"God forbid you don't follow the rules," was the dry response.

Crowley sighed. "The more we keep this internal-"

"The better our chances for annexing a place that doesn't innately warp or ruin us and will not bring down the wrath of Heaven and Earth upon us. Crowley, do not think I don't understand. It's why I back you; your reasoning in this is sound. But this," he waved to the desecration, "is not of Earth. It is nothing I have ever come across and unless I am suddenly severely mistaken in my ability to read you, nothing you've seen, either. And there's anger here."

"Alright. I want anybody - with a modicum of intelligence - not in any way connected to Lucifer tasked to watch anyone who _does_ have even the barest connection with the events of the past two years. Or forty. Best do forty."

"I trust you don't want yourself included in that measure."

Crowley sneered back at Ose's knowing smile sarcastically. "Please." He looked back to the corpses. "You know, it really is a pity we'll probably have to kill whatever's doing this. I mean, look at that. It is _truly_ beautiful work."

"You're the one with the Devil's own tongue. Perhaps you should see if you could come to an accord. Once we track said artist down."

Crowley grit his teeth. Felt a familiar burn in his gut. Where was Alka-Seltzer when he needed it?

 

>   
> 
> 
> _When Wholeness was no longer complete, Creator wept. He took what remained and fashioned a mighty tree. This tree grew large. Its branches and leaves and roots grew wide and deep, until they had threaded though all of creation. All places were connected through this tree. It was revered by all creatures, and those who visited it were touched by what remained. The waters which fed the tree gave wisdom, and the fruits gave life. 9_  
> 

Crowley stays away from him and time passes. There are no more intrusions into his little corner of Crowley's world and he casts his mind away from here, away from his brothers, away from his Father. Away from heat and light. It's always so warm. Eventually warps and wefts shift and break in Crowley's pattern. The door opens.

"So! Tell you what: make you a deal."

Crowley's voice reverberates off the stone and wood in the room, his steps clacking across the floor as he walks closer. He turns his head towards Crowley, a sliver of something going through him at the words. Familiar; distant.

"I won't tell your family about you, if you go with me to the opera tonight."

Nothing shifts in him. An old game they'd played. Crowley is waiting for an answer, though. "What performance?" he asks. It seems appropriate, though he's already shifting away from the topic.

"Does it matter? _Don Giovanni_."

The clouds are gathering thickly outside, turning heavy as nighttime arrives. Everything is a sickly, anemic cast against the water vapor in the air. He looks further than that, outside the clouds, where a pureness still exists. Cold and expanse that wouldn't burn and crush like this, this plane with all its confinements and rules.

"Gabriel, listen to me." Crowley is sitting next to him now, balanced securely on the arm of sofa, carefully not blocking his view. Something in him recoils at hearing those syllables directed at him aloud.

"Don't call me that," he says.

Crowley pauses for a moment, his thoughts wrapping around that request. Quickly enough, he asks, "What do you want me to call you, then?"

"Not that."

Time passes and then Crowley sighs. "Listen to me. Look at me, and listen."

He looks.

"You love humanity," Crowley says. "You reveled in it, wrapped it around yourself like a favorite cloak and never once got bored. I once watched you wallow in the disgusting filth of mortality for years, human years, living just like they do for no other reason than you _liked_ it. The pissing! The shitting! The sham drudgery that makes up daily existence. That wasn't a disguise I saw.

"And yet you are sitting here, _disengaged_ , isolate. Day after day. And the longer you stay in this cocoon of indifference and anger and whatever is passing for pain, the greater the chances of you swanning off to the rest of those self-righteous bastards you loathed."

"I will never go back there." He knows that, has wrapped it like a vow around his core.

"Well if you won't go back there, and you aren't here... where does that leave you, I wonder? You came to me for whatever reasons you had. However many drinks we've shared, I'm not stupid enough to try to guess at an archangel's thoughts, not the least logic being I don't think you had one sodding clue yourself at the time. But I know what you've cared about in the past. So come out with me tonight. Some pasta. Some duck. Some wine. _Don Giovanni_. What do you say?"

He'll comply.

He knows Crowley has a point. Is right. He remembers enjoying. Remembers laughter.

Shifts into something that will be deemed appropriate as an answer, polyester and cotton melting into silks and wools and platinum barbell cuff links because Crowley always demands the best, and discrepancies in a companion would lead to inevitable questioning.

Crowley doesn't move for long moments, and Gabriel continues to look outwards, beyond the stars and emptiness.

"We can leave in an hour and a half," Crowley says after he sits silently watching for a while. Then he stands and walks out, leaving Gabriel in solitude again.

 

A new pattern develops after that.

On the evenings Crowley doesn't find himself distracted by his simpletons and minutiae and bouts of 'relieving information from recalcitrant inmates', Crowley comes to him, with subtle demands that he now spend time interacting with Crowley. Though not directly with Crowley; it's not a selfish desire, even though it is. Crowley wants him partaking of Earth, of Sol and Luna and the galaxy. Of what Crowley sums up with, 'This reality'.

He does what Crowley asks him to, tells him to. Follows Crowley's reactions to his actions for guidance. He knows Crowley's words to him had gravity, that there is a weighted truth that revokes deception. He had cared for humanity. Had needed to protect them, once felt a desperate need to stand against anything that felt differently.

He doesn't feel that now. Feels nothing beyond vastness, beyond age. Beyond two things that stretch out further than he can trace without effort. There is supposed to be a third thing there; he knows that. But he can't remember it, so to him it doesn't matter. Where he exists now is so limited that expanding and exploring is a waste, ephemeral hazards leading to distraction.

Crowley seems to think it does matter, though. And he does remember trusting Crowley. Because Crowley is easy. Truths, beliefs, motivations. It makes things strangely simple, listening to him.

So eventually he starts going out by himself, traveling. To watch, to listen, to touch.

He moves around, takes a step and lands somewhere different. Sometimes it's cold. Sometimes it's warm. When it's warm, he leaves and steps elsewhere. Early on he steps too far and finds quiet and expanse, the churning mass of hydrogen and helium and oxygen a pinprick against deep emptiness. He limits himself after that. Refuses to dream of dissolving himself and floating.

He runs across the Winchesters. They are angry and hunting, focused and broken. He wants nothing to do with them; they don't notice him, but he shifts shape before he immediately moves on. He doesn't bother to revert when he returns to Crowley's base. Crowley rarely gives more than a glancing stop-check when things like this happen. His mind is always more concerned with who or what a thing is rather than what skin they are wearing.

Sometimes he feels Kali's power nearby. When he does, he leaves immediately. He doesn't want the quarrel to happen; his anger is still too present. The confrontation is ugly, hate-filled, with too many secrets that come pouring out. They say things to each other that ensure any remnant friendship is destroyed. He knows a vague part of him doesn't want it, so he'll stay away until it doesn't happen.

Sometimes Crowley finds him. One time he wanders into a church, following soft madrigal notes that catch his ear. He sits in the back of the nave and listens as the choir practices, stopping, starting, stopping again. Crowley ghosts in and sits beside him, dressed for cold weather with woolen overcoat and leather gloves.

"Feeling nostalgic?" he asks quietly, with an amused, sardonic laconism. It had taken Crowley millennia to hone that talent to true perfection.

He doesn't respond to the inquiry. Crowley knows the answer.

"They're good," Crowley says, relaxing into the pew as they move through _Patapan_ , deep bass echoing off the stone. A single soprano carries the melody.

"She'll be dead in two mornings," he says. She will be. An icy slick will cause a car to spin out into another lane. A following four wheel drive won't have time to compensate. Her skull will fracture and she won't wake up before she dies two hours and three minutes after the crash. This is her last concert.

Her fourteen year old brother becomes a doctor which becomes a family tradition for five generations. In the sixth generation, a son rebels and goes into justice, becomes a judge. He takes pity on a young grifter, who then gets drunk and beats a man to death. The man has a wife who is an alcoholic, and a young child will grow up never knowing the kindness of a stable parent.

All because of a seventeen year old girl no one will remember in a few decades. The scale is balanced by her great-great-grand nephew who is a pioneer in artificial organ transplants. Her third cousin three times removed notes her on a comprehensive family genealogy, but her line has no issue and that is the last time she is thought of.

He feels Crowley looking at him, then back to the girl. Crowley has a secret love of carols, especially those from the 16th and 18th centuries. He likes the layers of complexity raveled in even the simplest, though he rarely indulges for obvious reasons. He'll stay for this, though, sitting beside him until they slip out as the choir is disbanding for the night.

He encounters the Winchesters three more times. Once following a rain storm, they are pulling into a truck stop. Another time leaving the estate on foot, while they are dropping off another unlucky prisoner of an undeclared war. The next time is while he's at a restaurant with Crowley. He shifts into a female shape when they come near enough to see, dressed for the restaurant and the company. She ignores them while they snap and snarl and entertain Crowley with their helpless inability to put him in check. She drinks the wine Crowley ordered, a dark and dry thing which is more palatable on her new tongue.

They leave. Crowley looks at her. She shifts back to Loki.

"There's something off," Crowley says aloud. "What is it?"

The Impala is tearing pell-mell down the city streets. Dean is burning. Sam is complacent and ready to hunt. "This is the fourth time," he says.

Crowley's eyes shift to the door the brothers left from. "Is someone trying to tell you something?" he asks, going back to his eggplant. "Perhaps the fifth will have its charm."

Crowley wouldn't have been particularly amusing even before, but he isn't attempting to be. There is a legitimate point threaded in there.

A while later, he's sitting outside watching birds on a lake crossing the 60th parallel when he feels a ripple.

He is pulled away from the stillness abruptly when Castiel finds his hidden simulacra, enkindles them shortly after. He pulls Crowley to him as Crowley burns, the experience excruciatingly real for verisimilitude. Watches as he reforms outside-in, until he's complete again, braced on knees and palms and panting away the last remnants of pain.

Crowley coughs a few times, swallows, breathes.

"Thank you for that." Crowley winces and swallows again.

He says nothing. Lets Crowley compose himself. It won't take long.

"Well, I suppose if one must be taken out, death by angel has a certain amount of flair." Crowley looks up at him. He's ragged, tired, but still with that incessant thirst and need for knowledge. "I don't suppose _now_ you would tell me what you did with them?"

Crowley has no real expectation to learn, doesn't care about his bones anymore beyond that idle curiosity. He shakes his head, because no, it isn't safe for the knowledge to be loose. Crowley doesn't mind. Accepts it because he still has the ability to.

Crowley stands, dusts the worst off. "Come on. I owe you a bottle. Or twelve."

***

>   
> 
> 
> _This time was special, though. Creator had worked his will many times before, building up his worlds and then collapsing them like a house of cards blown away in a strong wind. He had created and destroyed, both worlds and people, plants and trees and the many creatures that walked among them. He sought to make the perfect creation, and many times he tried and was not satisfied. Until finally, he felt satisfied. He spoke to those around him, saying, 'Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth.' But every time, Creator wanted his new children to be free of the errors in the past, and so he said, 'The former shall not be remembered nor come to mind.' And because he spoke so, it was wiped from memory. 10_
> 
> _But even Creator could not cut away all memory, for in doing so he would cut away his own. So he allowed seven to remember, and so the number seven became a sacred number to Earth.  
> _

"Seems like he's still angry."

Crowley whirled around at the voice. There was something dressed as a young man on the other side of the room, deeply tanned with blue-black hair. Native by the looks of him, cheekbones, chin, nose. Wonderful.11

He was looking closely at one of the sculptures lining the wall.

"And whom might you be speaking of, exactly?" he asked.

"Been lots of storms. Mother isn't happy and she's showing it. Cracking the shell and throwing out smoke and fire to calm the skies. Skies aren't happy either, though."

Crowley closed his eyes against the fierce swelling need to grab the intruder and beat him. Nobody, human, inhuman, alive, dead, simply strolled into this place without signaling some sort of entrance. Whatever he - it - was, caution. Caution, prudence, defense. No overt motions just yet. Not when there wasn't an ounce of potency flowing of it. Him.

The man turned around and Crowley nearly took a step back. Still no manifest sign or feel of danger, but those eyes... There was something wild about those eyes that put him on edge. They didn't make him look right.

"Everybody felt Laufeysson die. Strange thing though: nobody felt Gabriel. Maybe those angels aren't so powerful. Ahahaha!"

Crowley started at the spasmodic laughter, tinged as it was with... insanity? Reckless impudence? Just as quickly it was gone, which put him on edge like nothing else.

"Still, take time for Mother to settle. We're holding up a party. Tell Ik when he's finished with lightning to swing by."

"How many others know?"

The crazy(-eyed) man shrugged. "Shakti11.5 wasn't quiet. You have been."

God, he hated Natives. Hated them. "And I'm to take that you're okay with this information?"

"He's one of us. What we do. Getting one over on a Trickster is the best. Playing one on all of us is the best of all. Worth a party. Give this to him."

He tossed a heavy envelope and Crowley caught it in his right hand. The man gave him a toothy grin that didn't stop Crowley from opening it right then. At least his visitor's teeth were normal.

A thick piece of handmade paper came out and his vision started to swim as he tried to focus on whatever was written. "And who exactly should I say delivered this?"

He gritted his teeth when another one of those laughs burst out and frissioned up his spine.

"You did! Don't want to overstay my welcome!"

Crowley snapped his eyes up, but not in time. The man was already gone. He looked back to the paper, and it wasn't his eyes, the damned writing itself was dancing all over the place. Fading, enhancing, moving. Giving him an honest headache.

Exasperation escaped from him before he went to Gabriel's room. He didn't bother knocking, just walked in and tossed the message at him.

"Congratulations, you're Bernie Madoff12. I was told to deliver that to 'Ik'. Came from a young man. Crazy eyes. Laugh like a demented Irishman."

It landed in Gabriel's lap and managed to get his attention away from the window. The static electricity in the room melted away for a moment as Gabriel glanced at the paper. Crowley couldn't tell if he was reading, but it was picked up and then dropped quickly.

"Who's it from? And while we happen to be on the topic, how exactly does one ward against tricksters invading one's personal spaces?"

"Coyote." And Gabriel was being positively chatty, because before he lost interest again, he said, "You have to ward to their names."

All their personalities, then. Brilliant. Of course, it made sense. One of the fundamental irritations about tricksters was their fluid nature, their ability to defy basic rules and principles of the cosmos. From one moment to the next they could shift into something so drastically removed from a previous incarnation as to be unrecognizable. What might have been effectual for or against one name could have little or no meaning to the next.

He would one day love to find out if this was an intrinsic part of their being, or if it was something learned.

Was Gabriel an anomaly? Or a point of reference?

Well, at the moment Gabriel was nothing.

"You might consider going out for a walk today," he said, turning to leave. He'd leave it to Gabriel, not force the issue. But the electricity hadn't returned yet, which meant either he was in a better frame of mind than normal or he was starting to take added care when Crowley was in the wing with him. Either explanation was a good sign.

He left, still pondering the trickster angle. When he thought about it, all told he'd known Gabriel's Loki for less than a year. Known _of_ him for far, far longer, but actual time spent with him? Interacting with him? Ten - maybe eleven - small months when added together, barring most recent events.

He went to his den. Turned off the lights and turned on the music. Thought about their first meeting.

It had been 1722. Charles Paulet had just died, a young man named Benjamin was contemplating his first famous letter, and Fergus was now in his fifth year of life beyond what he possibly should have lived.

London had called to him, or more correctly he was familiar enough with the English not to embarrass himself, and London held a great many desperate people, individuals and even entire families willing to lay down rash agreements to a stranger confident in his abilities to follow through on whatever small promises they might ask for.

He'd been stalking his most recent acquisition for the past two nights, a gentleman merchant who had only recently found himself in dire circumstances. A failed Indies voyage, gambling and hosting debts, and just last evening an almost inadvertent insult to a distant-but-not-quite-enough cousin to the nobility.

Sometimes Fergus didn't even have to try; this one had fallen into his hands with no effort at all. A few drinks, commiseration, a promise to meet the next afternoon.

And now here, in an empty corridor tasting of a carefully cultivated anxiety and worn fatigue, another bargain, another drop in a growing well of souls.

"It's a small price, all told. And ten years is a _very_ long time. Just imagine, no more having to duck away, _hiding_ yourself from those who should be bowing to _you_."

"This one belongs to me. Time to move along."

The voice had come from his left, a man dressed as a barber-surgeon13 standing just behind the fellow Fergus was dealing with. Rather, trying to deal with. Fergus had peered closely at the fellow. The fellow had blinked obsequiously.

"Don't see your name on him," Fergus had responded to the thing dressed as a man, for it had most definitely not been a mortal human.

"I have been working on this troll for the past fortnight, and _nobody_ interrupts my work, let alone a nobody willing to ease the travails of his life."

"Well he's not marked, that to me says he's fair game."

The creature had canted his head at the oddest tilt, disbelieving and quite inhuman at the same time.

"Tell you what. Make you a _deal_. I won't kill you if you turn around and walk away, right now."

"Perhaps you might not have realized this, but the gentleman here and I were in the middle of a transaction."

The creature - whatever he was - had raised an eyebrow at Fergus, giving him just enough time to feel a shiver of trepidation as he had raised a hand and _clicked_ his fingers together in a _snap_ -

Everything changed.

Fergus's human ears had popped and a misty daylight blinded him for a breath. The bustling city was gone. The crowds just footsteps away - vanished. Streets, roads, paths, _buildings_ \- all gone. He heard water nearby, through a dense thicket of trees and brush.

It was a long, long time before he saw civilization again.

***

>   
> 
> 
> _Creator made many things by his design. He made the air that was breathed, and the earth that was walked upon. He made the oceans to swim in, and all the creatures to do these things. This was his will._
> 
> _But also created were things he had not designed. Where there was now air to be breathed, so too were there things that stole away breath. Where light was now cast to extinguish the darkness, so too did darkness extinguish light. For every thing the Great Spirit had brought into existence, an opposite had appeared._
> 
> _Because, though the Great Spirit had not been created, he had no opposite. And realizing this, he knew he could bring end to these errant things, and so he made from himself guardian spirits to war against the demons. He created them like the hair on the head, and countless they warred against the evil spirits, until creation was restored and the evil spirits were forgotten._  
>   
>  14

"Listen, I got three more for you two to check into."

While it wasn't perhaps the most astute of maneuvers, Crowley couldn't resist checking back in on Bobby Singer. Word would no doubt get out to Singer and his lot sooner rather than later that he wasn't nearly as deceased as they'd been hoping. It worked, Crowley figured, more to his advantage than not to deliver the news personally to Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

_("This obvious crush you have on him is the definition of ridiculous, you realize.")_

He steadily ignored the voice. He'd dropped in periodically over the year Singer had been working on finding his way out of the bargain for his soul. Not often, but enough to gage any progress Singer had made, which had mostly been fits and starts followed by grinding halts until he'd managed to pull a thread Crowley hadn't even known was there - let alone loose - and unravelled his entire tapestry.

And he'd played it brilliantly.

Crowley had certainly appreciated the flair, however irritating it had been to find himself one-upped. As an audition, however? Magnificent. ****

He stayed out of sight around a corner while he listened to Singer's end of a telephone conversation. It was quiet here, a bit peaceful, actually, with Singer ensconced at his desk, the bank of phones along the wall to Crowley's left silent.

"Well, that makes 17 that I know of... Every one of 'em. Well when you boys are finished with that, head to St. Louis and check it out. Yeah, bye."

It was a surly finish, made Crowley smile for a small moment before he rounded the corner and revealed himself.

"So what's this, then?"

Crowley had the pleasure of catching Singer out as he moved from shadows to the light from the desk. He'd timed it nicely. For once Singer's shotgun was actually out of reach.

"How the _fuck_ are you still alive!"

"Ace in the house," he said with a slight smile. "Never leave home without one. I'm quite sure you of all people understand that sentiment."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Bobby snarled, making utterly unsubtle movements towards his nearest gun.

"Is that any way to speak to an old friend? Thought I'd drop by, see how things were going."

"Sure you did." Twitchy mustache, eyes glinting at him obsidianly.

"Honestly! No ulterior motives beyond my own curiosity. A working man's got to have his hobbies."

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about people dying, would you?" Bobby's question was deliciously suspicious.

"I know all sorts of things about people dying, not dying, living pathetically cheerful artificial lives. World's a big place. Care to narrow it down?" Crowley asked him.

"Madison. LaPorte. Woodward. Chattanooga. Grisly deaths. Ripped apart, if you get my meaning." Bobby said, voiced drowning in sarcasm, accusation plain.

Of course, it would turn out Crowley was quite aware of what he might have been talking about. So. It seemed Singer was well on the trail of deaths that he himself was having investigated. Though Bobby didn't seem to know that the deaths in each of those cities had been demons. That actually made Crowley the smallest bit wistful. It meant that those who had been killed had covered their tracks well enough that hunters hadn't sussed out any demonic activity. Losing caliber like that pricked just a tad.

He raised an eyebrow, quirked his lips in an interested way. "Not a clue what you're on about, mate. Tell me about them, though. Ripped apart? Sounds delightful." Bobby grit his teeth in a silent snarl and his hand went for the drawer with his revolver. "Doing a bit of translating, are you?" Crowley asked, looking over the piled stacks of open books, computer, and abused notebook. Next to the notebook sat a sheaf of old, old manuscript pages.

He quickly picked up the first page; Singer moved to intercept him but he swung out of reach before any fists could connect. He couldn't help but frown as he looked at the symbols littering the paper.

" _Na-Vo-An Re-Di-_ "

"You can read that?" Crowley looked up to see Bobby glaring at him with a mixture of his constant irritation with life and an honest desire to know.

"I can read a great many things." Even those that made no sense. "Now where was I? _Na-Vo-An Re-Di Ma-Ko..._ " He went on and Singer had grabbed his pencil and was scribbling along as he read.

Crowley had barely finished uttering the last syllable before a spark of deadness wafted through the room, spreading outwards like flash fire, beyond the walls, into the night.

Before Bobby could get out even one grouchy word, Gabriel was there, wearing yet another face, fists leaning on Singer's desk, expression vicious and scathing.

"What are you, a fucking _rookie_?" he snarled.

"What!" Crowley was indignant at the insinuation. "It's gibberish!" Unless...

Unless that pit in his stomach was starting to tell him something.

"Unless it's a phonemic incantation."

_("Unless it's a phonemic incantation," he could hear the snide mocking. "You don't read aloud from the Necronomicon, moron!")_

Gabriel's expression matched Crowley's internal monologue perfectly, but he said nothing, reaching behind himself and coming back with a flaking, reedy thing that barely maintained any sort of cohesion as Gabriel waved it in front of his face. Crowley closed his eyes and grabbed the paper.

"What the hell have you gone and done this time, Crowley?"

"The same bloody thing you would have done, only a little bit faster, right?" he snapped, tossing a glare towards Bobby. He breathed in deep, calming himself, and looked at the sheet he'd been given. It had helpfully been translated into Erse15, despite Crowley's not having spoken it in far longer than he'd been alive.

It wasn't comforting how the translation kept devolving; terms, concepts that were only properly expressed in languages older and older. Latin gave way to Aramaic, then Sumerian. Enochian presented itself, and some words and names were apparently untranslatable, symbols that had no meaning to him. There was enough for him to get the gist of it all, however.

"Oh, no."

They'd summoned something. Something so old that it literally defied angelic translation. _What the hell_ , he took a moment to wonder, _was older than Angelic script?_

"Oh, _yes_. So _congratulations_ on having _apparently_ been _born yesterday_!"

Crowley threw the translation back at Gabriel. It immolated before it reached him. "Are you finished?"

"Oh, you better hope I'm not finished, star shine." The sarcasm smeared itself throughout the room. Crowley supposed that if he absolutely had to be fair, Gabriel looked honestly enraged.

"Well how about a little less disdain, then?"

Gabriel snorted a derisive noise and disappeared into thin air.

" _Damn_ it!"

Papers began floating down from the ceiling while half of Bobby's desk started on fire. Crowley grabbed at one of the loose pages while Bobby tried dousing flames before they started anything else alight. Looked like instructions to banish whatever it was they'd called.

"What the fuck was that all about?"

"Where did you get that manuscript?"

"Library book sale. Like I'm gonna tell _you_. Now what the hell just happened?"

"We just summoned something older than dirt." Crowley grabbed a handful of pages off the floor and thrust them at Singer, who held onto them without thinking.

" _We?_ "

" _We_." He wasn't taking credit for this alone. "Get reading."

 

It was the late hours of the morning before the two of them finally agreed they'd gone over every piece of non-immolated material with enough thoroughness that any more study was pointless.

Bobby was clearly flagging, though he'd been unwilling to back down once it had become apparent that he, having spoken some of the incantation before Crowley had been stupid enough to read the entire thing (aloud, not aloud, it wouldn't have made a difference, it turned out. Point in Crowley's favor...) was just as much a part of the solution as Crowley was.

The dark-eyed, gaunt look had grown on Singer's face as dawn passed to morning and then to near-noon. When 7:30 had struck, Bobby's series of phones had started ringing and not stopped. At one point Crowley had even grabbed a handset, affecting a Brooklyn accent and assuring someone on the other end that whomever they'd been calling about was a valued team player. Or something.

Bobby had stared and blinked and twitched and finished his own call and they'd gone back to work.

_("No, seriously, what is it with you and this guy? Tormenting someone for shits and giggles is one thing, but you're starting to look like a twelve year old girl, here." Gabriel would be chewing something obnoxiously crunchy because he loved to add that flair of insult to his pointed observations._

_Crowley would take a moment to glare before replying, "Do you have any idea how perfect a lieutenant he would be? He already_ loathes _demons, he'd have no problem being turned loose to slaughter them to his heart's content."_

_"He wants nothing more than to kill you. You're not exactly making the twelve year old girl comment go away, here."_

_"Everybody who works for me wants to kill me. And he'd be exceptionally effective at his job."_

_"Yeah. If you could keep him in line. Well, hell. At least it would be entertaining for_ me _to watch.")_

Evening would probably be bad. Evening would bring whatever was coming into full existence. It translated as shadowy, akin to a spirit but not ruled by any laws that guided spirits. It was a force, perhaps. Something dark, twisting and utterly perverse.

Which coming from him was saying something.

Something that despite everything they'd been left - given, though Bobby wouldn't hear of any such thing - didn't seem containable or destroyable. But it apparently would have a taste for those that knew it.

The 'evening' part rather worried, Crowley, actually. Given how nothing else fit any patterns he knew or knew of, he didn't exactly trust that evening meant evening.

He finally picked up a thick book and dropped it hard on the desk. "Go get some sleep before I knock you out myself," he said to Bobby.

"You try touching me and we'll get to see how well holy oil and rock salt mix," was the response, but he'd taken the hint and descended to his precious panic room, ( _"Like I'd_ _ever fall asleep where you could get ahold of me,")_ while Crowley pondered over said mixture. The possibilities were intriguing.

Hours passed and Bobby slept through to afternoon. Crowley read the translation over and over, lackadaisically answering the bank of phones. Sometimes he even handed out helpful advice, but that was more because he wanted information to follow up on than he was trying to do a good one by Singer.

"Crowley!" sounded from the basement and Crowley appeared down there.

"What?"

Bobby was standing in the doorway of his panic room, armed with a shotgun, glaring.

"That wasn't you?"

Crowley went _en guarde_ immediately, looking around. He couldn't feel a damned thing beyond the devil's traps and oils and various imbued mixtures Bobby had down here. "No, whatever it was wasn't me."

Bobby didn't seem to have been joking, because he stepped over the threshold on full alert, gun at the ready, and started looking around, too.

Out of the corner of his eye Crowley thought he saw something and he turned to look. There was nothing, though; boxes, cans, shelving. Then he saw an oily mass bubbling out from the walls, the cracks in the mortar. Oily and discarnate, ephemeral. It was coming out another wall as well. He took a step away from both, and it started pooling towards him more quickly.

"Oh, that's not good. Alright, upstairs." He didn't give Bobby a chance to complain, just grabbed his elbow and moved them both -

\- to the top of the basement stairs. The door was shut, something keeping him from slipping through it.

"Oh, come on!"

"The hell, Crowley!" Bobby shouted in his ear.

"I wish!" he shouted back. He could see the... thing curling at the juncture of stairway and ceiling. He kicked at the door. It crashed open immediately and Crowley threw Bobby through it, jumped through himself, and slammed it shut.

It seemed Bobby had seen it finally, because he was staring at the door sill intently. "Were there any wards against it?" he asked.

"None," Crowley said.

"At _all_?"

" _Pick_ one! I'll try it!" He tried one anyway, slicing his palm, drawing and incanting. Not that he thought it would work.

"What the hell's that supposed to do?"

"Sorry, luv, not on the first date."

"First date. What were the other times, reach arounds? _Fine_. How 'bout this one: why didn't you wake me before nightfall?"

He whirled around. "It's not..." It was. "Night." The house was absolutely dark. No sounds, no electricity. A calm came over him and he sighed. "It's not night, Bobby."

Crowley pulled them into the kitchen. He could see the thing by the fireplace already. He went to the cabinets, the one with the bucket of salt that sat underneath the sink.

"Do you want to try a salt circle?" he asked. Bobby looked at him.

"Will that _work_?"

"Doubtful. But it may give you a few seconds more. I've heard from songs that means a lot to some people."

Bobby rolled his eyes and shook his head, then started backing away from the outer wall. "Just how much of this are you seeing?"

Crowley glanced around. It was everywhere, walls, ceiling. Not licking at their feet just yet, but Crowley could feel something off about the floor, something no longer quite right. "Apparently quite a bit more," he said.

He yanked Bobby's arm as a piece surged towards him, which just caused the mass to writhe and boil faster. It wasn't inching anymore.

Suddenly Gabriel was there, wearing the same face as earlier, staring in the oily mass, head cocked to the side.

"Hi, there," he said to it with a vicious snarl. He reached straight in to it and _ripped_. There was a piercing noise, a scream that didn't sound like anything Crowley had ever heard before, that hurt like the universe itself was being shredded alive. And burning light and power, as Gabriel shed his skin and partially manifested. Crowley grabbed hold of Singer and shielded him awkwardly from it.

It was over fast, but not soon enough for Crowley who couldn't seem to look away, as though he'd been appointed witness.

Then the noise was gone, the late afternoon sun was back, and Gabriel was standing before them, covered in ichor; bathed in it, when Crowley was sure he needn't have been.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked as Singer wrenched himself from his grip.

Gabriel looked at him squarely. "It made me feel better."

Crowley nodded slowly at the flat monotone. Looked around the kitchen, into the living room. The house was a mess, remnants everywhere. "Jolly good for you. Glad to hear it."

"It's gone?" Bobby asked. Apparently he didn't see the residue; Crowley watched him toss his shotgun into a mess of thick on the table. "Permanently? A flash of light and we don't have to worry anymore?"

Gabriel deigned to flick his eyes towards Bobby, but gave Crowley the answer.

"It's done," Crowley said. He still didn't want to take his eyes off Gabriel, though. There was still something chillingly primeval about him.

"Good. Thanks," Bobby said, and that did make Gabriel look at him.

"Stop reading from convenient garage sale books," Gabriel said to him. And vanished.

Bobby turned to him. "Exactly what did I miss? I saw a bright light. You're acting like there was more to it."

Crowley looked around again, uncomfortable.

"There was."

>   
> 
> 
> _Creator by now had many sons, for all of Creation was his. But most precious to him had always been his first sons. The Creator's first sons were powerful. They could bring clouds together for rain when they flew and if they shook with laughter, hail would fall from the sky. Lightening flashed from their eyes when they blinked, and every beat of their great wings would cause thunder to roll across the plains and echo off the mountains. From this they were called Thunderbirds, and it was wise not to seek their attention.  
> _  
>   
>  16  
> 

A long, long, _long_ time before he saw civilization again.

He didn't think to start keeping track of the time until years later, and then he stopped when so many had passed that it became a pointless display of monotony.

The world was a wild place, feral; raw with power and upset, filled with creatures of dreams and nightmares and fables.

Things shifted, and they changed. He took the name Crowley one night when a creature asked him his name, rather than attacking him or trying to eat him.

Turned out that creature was a demon, too.

Crowley started dealing souls again as soon as he was able. He'd had doubts from the beginning that any of this was real, had learned about tricksters and some of the things they were capable of. But trading favors was a time-honored tradition, and he started noticing that things got easier for him with every deal that came due.

By the time he first met Lilith, he had an impressive collection to his name. She had tracked him down and asked his background, her eyes had narrowed as she looked over him. She'd been searching for something, which Crowley hadn't understood until many years later.

He'd been cagey in answering her questions, choosing instead to sway her.

When Rome started her rise, Crowley made out like a bandit. That was the first time he really started believing. And if it were all an illusion, at least he was enjoying himself.

He didn't really start paying attention until he heard the Merrie Monarch17 had died.

He'd been polishing the gold on a recent deal made with one Francesco Morosini18, which happened to conjoin perfectly with an earlier agreement with Odescalchi in Rome, when he overheard one of the ambassadors talking about recent news from England. There were rumors of instability and suddenly everything seemed far too familiar. He thought about it for a moment, then two, and then three. Then he moved over to England, because perhaps there he could figure out what was bothering him.

London was still London though there was unrest, chicanery that would erupt in a few short months. He had a certainty of it that he knew he shouldn't, and a memory of sea salt on his lips and tongue. He followed that taste to the stacks of Taigh Iain Ghròt and familiarity washed over him.

He went to the castle, where the Earl was in residence sleeping the sleep of the landed. Crowley moved from Mey back to the coast, to Wick and the cramped clothier's shop filled with the stink of wools and linens dyed and rolled. In the back slept two boys. One young, 11, cold against the wind coming off the sea. The other was older. Twenty-four, he would be. Fergus MacLeod, two years into his journeymanship.

Crowley left, but came back over the years. Every time he started to doubt. He watched Fergus age. Saw him take over as the clothier, saw him married, saw her birth spawn that wasn't his.

Eventually Crowley started wondering. It started a stray thought, then grew. The more he wondered, the more the idea amused him. What if he dealt Fergus's soul? What exactly would happen?

Fergus was 46 when Crowley decided the temptation was too much to pass. He showed up one night when Fergus was alone and working in the shop. "Tell me something, friend. Would you rather serve in Heaven? Or reign in Hell?"

Fergus's accent had been atrociously provincial. He burned his mark into Fergus, and nothing changed except he had one more soul in his accounts.

Fifteen and a half years later he found himself in London, almost missing the appointment. Arrived just in time to hear a thing disguised as a barber-surgeon say _make you a deal_. Then that overly loud _snap_.

Crowley had entangled with gods before. Had seen their powers, felt them. But he'd also heard the rumors, the minute scraps that filtered out from the tight ranks of the Fallen. Of things gods _couldn't_ do.

Crowley's faux barber-surgeon turned towards him. "Oh, look!" he said, voice chipper and insouciant. "You're back! Are we going to do this again?" His voice was darker with the last.

Crowley stepped out of the shadows, shook his head, not taking his eyes away. "No, by all means. This time you were here first. Have at him."

He smiled at the look that engendered, a weighted stare that lingered.

Another _click_ of the fingers; Crowley didn't move a muscle, kept that precious eye-contact with nary a flinch nor retreat. The ceiling suddenly caved in, crushing the bedeviled fool who had started this.

"Did you change your accent?" The man walked towards him, sauntered actually, then passed. "I'm thirsty," he said, and Crowley turned just enough to indicate he was listening. "Let's go to the Red Cow."19

***

He was sitting with Gabriel at dinner when his phone rang, and rather than let it go to mail, Crowley chose to smoothly intercept it.

They had already been interrupted twice by minions. Gabriel had shifted into a female skin the first time, and when Crowley had turned back he'd seen her. Deep turquoise cocktail dress that was actually an exquisite cut for her body, but platinum hair in a pixie cut.

"Oh, no. No, no. Not my color," he said. He got a raised eyebrow, but she shifted again, titian-haired now, with a new face, a french twist, and a deep blue pant suit.

The second intrusion Gabriel had simply ignored completely, sipping her wine and looking off into the distance towards another table while two uncomfortable demons had updated him on their latest procurements.

Crowley thumbed the phone on, amused by the name on the screen, wondering just how much effort it had taken to get the number.

"And how is your evening going, Robert?" he asked with a smile.

_"Like you give two rats' craps how it's going. You still got your 'friend' with you?"_

"I actually have quite a few friends, not that I think you'd believe me. Care to elaborate?"

 _"Cut the crap. Tell your buddy the Winchesters have run across his daughter."_ 20

Crowley's eyes darted across the table to Gabriel; whatever humanity she'd held had bled away with Singer's last words, leaving no doubt that they'd been heard. She was suddenly gone, without word or action. There one moment and gone the next instant. It was actually rather disconcerting to see. _"And he better not hurt 'em."_

"I-" Crowley was without words for the briefest of moments.

_"He's already gone, isn't he? Goddammit."_

Crowley tried to follow Gabriel's trail but there was nothing. He'd gone straight to the necessary location, skipping flight and travel and almost certainly just suddenly _being_ where he wanted to be. Crowley ended the call and moved to Singer's location, inside his infernally protected home.

"You could have chosen a subtler way to announce it."

Singer didn't even give him the pleasure of being startled by his presence. He just looked at him from across his desk and slowly hung his handset back in the cradle of the phone.

"He hurts either of them and I will find a way to end both of you. I don't care what it takes."

Crowley took the uncomfortable chair akimbo to the desk. "Given this is the first reaction he's truly given to anything since returning, I'd suggest we both hope those two louts haven't managed to do anything to her before he reaches them. Now tell me what they told you."

***

She ends up in... a forest. In Minnesota of all places. Outside St. Peter. (Of course, and the convergence of it all might have made her smile at one point in her life, three disparate paths leading towards one another like this.)

To her left she sees Sam and Dean, trussed up and hanging so very sacrificially from one of Yggdrasil's massive branches. Dean is already working his way to being nearly free while Sam is distracting with the pure shards of hate he's emanating towards the darkness that is more living than dead.

The forest breathes once, twice, and then shadows start coalescing and Hel approaches the two boys, striding forward into their insolence. Wrath and Judgment are flowing around Hel and for a long moment she watches her daughter with pride.

Sam spits out something, lost to her.

She watches Hel glance at him, acknowledge him with the barest of effort before moving closer, dressed in the accoutrements of pointless death. Hel reaches her hand out towards Sam, and before Dean can explode into a fury of protectiveness, she interjects, voice quiet and with her authority.

"Hela."

She steps out of the shadows as Hel turns around, her eyes wide, not in any subservient, beseeching way; in shock, in stunned observance.

"Faðir."

Hel rushes to her, into her arms, and for the first time in a long time she holds her daughter close, feels her safe in her arms, protected. She breathes her daughter in deep, feels Hel's power seep into hers, their quintessence merging, entwining.

"You shouldn't be here," she says to Hel, falling into the old Jǫtunn of Hel's youth. "Not with them." She looks at the Winchesters, holding Hel tightly to her while they struggle even harder to free themselves. She runs her hands against Hel's skin, her thumbs along her cheekbones, her fingers into her hair. _Alive_. Alive and looking so much like Angrboða she could weep. Hel's deep eyes seem to be drinking her in, and suddenly she feels the crush of sadness and despair she's been holding off all this time. She feels Hel reaching out to her again with her power, wrapping it into hers. Sam lets out a grunt as he tries to gain purchase to contort himself into a better position.

She presses a kiss to Hel's temple, never looking away from the Winchesters. "Go to Crowley," she whispers, quietly so that nothing else in the wood or out will hear it. "Stay there. I'll come shortly." She sends Hel away with less than a thought.

Sam and Dean blink with her disappearance, because apparently seeing people vanish in front of their eyes is still a new experience for the wonder brothers.

Quickly enough their eyes refocus on her. Sam doesn't seem to care, but Dean, at least, has an honest wariness to him.

"Stay away from my daughter," she says. "You think you know about the torments of Hell? I'm far more creative than any of them could be."

She leaves them there then, throwing herself towards Hela.

***

A sudden change in air pressure was the only warning they'd received before their visitor had appeared. And despite the innate loathing to give Crowley any sort of credit whatsoever, even Bobby had to admit his response time was pretty impressive. He'd been up and turned around before the dust had even begun swirling, let alone settled.

There was a woman in the room with them now. Brunettish, tallish, late twenties maybe, dressed in a sundress, but barefoot. She looked around the room, eyes skipping them like neither he or Crowley were there. She closed her eyes and tilted her head, still for a moment and then she took a deep, deep... deep breath.

He was gonna assume this was Hel.

She looked right at him. Pierced him. If this was what Dean meant when he said Castiel sometimes looked through his soul he would never mock the kid again, mentally or to his face.

"Robert Singer."

It was all she said, but he felt blood curdle in his veins. Maybe even literally, since he'd never felt so cold before in his life, couldn't seem to move, and was possibly even having problems breathing. He hoped to hell/Hel/ha! he never admitted it out loud, but the second Crowley stepped a bit forward, moving just barely between their line of sight, drawing attention, he was just the smallest bit thankful.

Even if Crowley took half a step back when she moved her look to him.

She dismissed him - them - didn't really matter and turned away towards the front window. Crowley backed up a few steps more until the both of them were standing behind the desk like it was some foreign talisman protecting them from, let's admit it, a really angry woman. They shifted and they stared, but after one shared look neither of them was going to be saying one damned thing.

(The deeply inappropriate and macabre part of him that had gotten him through Karen and Miller and Joshua and his fucking legs and the goddamned apocalypse reared up at that point to point out that this was almost proof positive that yes, old Fergus had indeed been married at one point.)

Not soon enough, there came another break in the tension. The Trickster, Gabriel, Loki. Appearing in the living room looking like himself, not whoever he'd been pretending to be the last time, only a few feet from the other unwelcome visitor. And Bobby would be damned if he didn't look like any other concerned... frantic... father.

"Are you okay?" he asked, completely ignoring the rest of them like they weren't there, moving towards Hel and grabbing her shoulders. She didn't seem to mind though, because she moved even closer, clutching him, hugging him like he was about to disappear. ( _Like she'd thought he was dead, moron._ )

Bobby glanced at Crowley, who didn't look like he was about to fight for his life anymore, but wasn't showing anything else watching the two of them.

The Trickster - Gabriel, dammit - his mind had imprinted and it was going to take a while to adjust, pulled back enough to look at her, to make her look at him. "Hela, are you okay? Where are the boys?"

'Hela' quirked her head at him, moving back enough to pull something out of either a pocket or thin air. Crowley let out a semi-hysterical hiccup of laughter and Bobby realized, as she started tapping the screen, that it was an iPhone.

Gabriel seemed to think it was great, though. He grabbed one of her hands and kissed her fingers, beaming at her.

She said something to him, something old. Very, very old, tinged in Germanic with lilting vowels. Whatever it was made him hug her again. Whatever he whispered back was clearly an apology.

He and Crowley both had the same idea of staying put for the time being. For him it was pragmatism. If the two of them had made it this far, nothing short of his basement was going to be of any use to him. And since he'd never warded against Castiel, it wasn't like that was going to be safe, either.

"What were you _thinking_ going after them?" Gabriel asked suddenly. "I mean, seriously, do you need neon lights? You stay away from them."

Hela pulled back again, staring at Gabriel, and that chill was in Bobby's blood again. "Heiptir, Faðir," she said. Bluntly. Categorically. "Blood vengeance is our right."

It seemed to put Gabriel back. He started shaking his head, like he couldn't understand it. "Hel..."

The look she gave Gabriel sent another chill ripping up Bobby's spine for some damned reason, and it would have been great if they'd stopped already.

"No, Faðir. We might not be able to reach your brother. Yet. But we can deal with all who helped his cause."

"Hel, I'm not dead," Gabriel all but whispered.

"You were." Her words were raw.

And Bobby... Bobby couldn't even fault her for that sentiment. For that grief, those tears. There had been a point where he might have let the whole world burn to have Karen back. And then he'd gotten her back and... he'd almost let the whole world still burn.

She'd been so much better than him.

Couldn't say he wouldn't do it all again.

"Excuse me," Crowley said suddenly, speaking into the silence, "if I may interject a question here, you didn't happen to check Azazel's brat21 off that list of yours, did you? And may I just say, your craftsmanship has been _exquisite_."

Bobby stared. So did everybody else.

"What? I have a professional interest."

Hel didn't seem to find it particularly amusing, though. She leveled that ice-cold focus of hers onto Crowley. It was chilling and calculating, like being stared at by a hungry reptile before it takes a chunk of flesh out of you. Crowley at least had the sense to be unnerved and realize he was on the menu.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's a dangerous interest," Hel replied.

"I had nothing to do with his death!" Crowley started at the same time as Gabriel with, "Stop it, Hela. He was doing what I asked him to."

"I know. It's why you're still alive. Though you've certainly profited."

Crowley was undeterred, and Bobby wondered if he could figure out how much of his act was bravado and how much was legitimate nonchalance. "I do my best to profit every time, my dear. I've found it makes me interesting."

Hel looked like she was going to say something else, but instead she paused and looked over Gabriel's shoulder, face moving from calm to confused in a breath. "Faðir?"

****

***

>   
> 
> 
> _One day as the Great Spirit looked over creation, he saw difference. The breeze was not as gentle, the colors of the flowers and trees bland and faded. He walked for a day and a night, and noticed the sun did not move across the sky as it should, and when darkness came, the moon did not travel. The animals were fearful, and so the Great Spirit went to his brother and told him all he had seen._
> 
> _He asked his brother what could be done that the sun and moon would move again as they had, that the flowers would bloom and smell sweet, and that the rabbit and the eagle and the salmon would no longer fear. The Great Spirit's brother was a wise man, too. He sat and thought about the question his brother had brought to him. And then he, too, went out and walked for a day and a night._
> 
> _He witnessed the sun and the moon, saw the wilted sweet grass, and heard the trembling heartbeats of all the animals. When he returned, he called his brother to him, and he said, "There is not a balance as there needs to be. There is no change to the world, and it cannot hold together, for nothing is infinite but us. Where you are Creation, I will be Change. I am infinite and eternal, and when this universe becomes extinct I will have no loss."_
> 
> _The Great Spirit thanked his brother and said to him, "This work will be most difficult, my brother. I will give you one-fourth of creation until the end of your days." The Great Spirit's brother accepted this, and this is how balance came to the world._  
>   
>  22

Bobby watched Gabriel lose focus for a beat and then he was back, only now he looked...

"What?" Crowley asked, immediately. "What's wrong?"

There was a high pitched whine building in the air, barely there but starting to make Bobby's ears ring.

"What is it!" Crowley asked again, voice raising against the noise. Gabriel ignored him, but shook his head sharply at Hel and suddenly the noise was gone. He forced Hel back towards where Bobby was standing, turned back around to face the back door -

_knock knock knock knock_

The room went still, silent.

Hel moved to stand behind Gabriel, but he pushed her back again, not turning or looking away from the door.

_knock knock knock knock_

The sound of the bolt turning in the door rasped in the dead air, the knob turning, protesting hinges. Soft footsteps, step- _click_ , step; step- _click_ , step. Turn, closing door.

More steps and clicks. Gabriel had the keen focus of a hawk. Hel, too, for that matter. So whoever or whatever it was obviously got an angel's blood pumping.

Gabriel moved forward to be just enough in the way that when the guy moved far enough into the kitchen he was obscured.

Step- _click_ , step. _Click._

Gabriel moved again, this time obviously keeping himself between his daughter and the visitor. But it was enough -

"Hello, Aṛta."23

 _Christ_. Death. Again.

And when Bobby talked about it later, told it, he would swear he could feel something stretching, like a rubber band pulled too far stopping the moment before it broke. Something real or unreal right before Gabriel spoke.

"Hello, Uncle."

Nobody said anything for a long minute until Gabriel barely turned his head back towards them, giving a tiny negative shake. Bobby didn't get it until he looked around, saw Crowley with his arms poised, ready to touch him and Hel. When Bobby looked back up, Death was smiling, a small, private quirk to his lips.

"What are you doing here?" Gabriel asked in a wary, neutral tone.

"Oh, don't be like that." Death walked further into the room, slow and measured steps that gave him a light glance their direction. "I've come to meet my niece. After all, I hear she takes after me."

Gabriel didn't move. Didn't breathe, didn't blink, just stood there staring back at the guy. Death seemed to have infinite patience, no pun intended.

Then Gabriel turned and raised out a hand, "Hel," he said, beckoning her to him. She went immediately, which really? Bobby thought, probably wasn't her smartest move. "This is your Uncle."

Gabriel didn't take his hand off of her, he noticed.

"Let's have a look at you, then," Death said, first touching her shoulders, then lifting her chin up, examining her face, eyes, something. "You've turned out lovely, my dear. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Hel looked at Gabriel again, maybe for guidance or reassurance, maybe something else, like whether or not they were all going to have to fight for their lives. Bobby didn't have a hope in hell of guessing. And he wondered if she got anything out of it, because Gabriel still hadn't shed that guarded posture of his. "Uncle," she said.

"Nonsense. Call me YHMH."

Bobby frowned. Yama? Yama as in the Hindu god of death, or Yama as in something else? Gabriel looked decidedly unthrilled by the introduction, turning stonier and holding on to Hel's arm even more tightly.

Death took a step back and addressed Gabriel again. "Did your Father at least deliver the message I asked him to pass along?" Off Gabriel's look, "Of course not."

"Why deliver the undeliverable?" Gabriel asked, sounding resigned and unsurprised.

Death scoffed.

Gabriel looked out the window. "I knew it wasn't Him. The message came with that knowledge. And it's not like I don't know where I stand with Him. He's angry."

Death's response was pithy. "Your Father is sulking because he was cuckolded."

Gabriel shot a fast look towards him and Crowley.

"No," Death said, with a contemplative lilt to his voice, "I rather think I want them to remember this conversation. It's time, don't you think?"

"I think I don't want my _family_ trapped in the middle of a bitchfest between you and Dad."

"YHWH will not interfere."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. Yo-vah. Huh. Looked like a few MT scholars should be jumping cartwheels right about then.

"Right, because He's never been known to change his mind at all," Gabriel snapped back, and the entire thing was beginning to uncomfortably remind Bobby of arguments at family dinners in front of guests.

"One-quarter, Aṛta. That was not just a gentleman's agreement bound by the shake of a hand, it was written into the fabric of every creation. Did you not ever think on why I did nothing even after that spell your brother set into motion?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes, said something about irony too quietly for Bobby to make out. "There's only three of us now," he said.

"I do believe I would be willing to forgo any of YHWH's guardians." It was delivered with arid dryness. Gabriel snorted softly, and so did Bobby, because from that tone there'd been no doubt that 'guardians' would ever have been claimed by Death.

"Why?" Gabriel's question felt loaded, like there were five or six different conversations in that one word question.

Death paused. " _That_ is a conversation which should remain between the three of us."

And then they were gone, Death, Gabriel, and Hel. No, not gone. In the kitchen.

Sitting around his kitchen table, stock still, looking eerily like statues from a wax museum. Suddenly the room flickered, shifted, with everybody in a slightly different position.

"Whoa!" Bobby took a step back. "What the hell was that?"

Crowley moved closer to the threshold and took a good look. "Time adjustment, I'll wager. Imagine they don't want to draw too much attention to themselves."

"What are you talking about?" The room flickered again. Actually, now that he saw it twice, it wasn't the room flickering, but the sudden movement of the people at the table that made it look like the entire room was changing. Like a poorly drawn flip book, or a movie with missing frames. One moment an arm was crossed, the next it was on the table, or someone was looking left and then right.

Crowley sighed and moved away from the doors. "They can alter time all they want, but the more you mess with something, the more noticeable it becomes. They might be able to fend off any irritating flies that come buzzing around, but why bother if you don't need to? One of them is probably catching them up to us every few seconds. Just enough that we can't overhear or see what they're talking about."

"How do you even know what you're talking about?" Because for whatever damned reason Bobby believed he did.

"After what that bastard did to me, I found it a good hobby to know how these things work."

"What did he do to you?"

Crowley just leveled that fucking _Look_ of his at him. Heavy, insincere, overly coy. "Might as well sit down," he said, moving towards the chair by the roll-top desk. "Have a feeling it's going to take awhile."

"Nobody said you had to stay here," Bobby replied. "In fact, no one invited you to."

"So inhospitable, Bobby! You should have people over more often. Might soften those rough edges some."

Crowley sat in Bobby's chair with a winsome smile while Bobby grit his teeth and poured himself a whisky. ****

***

"Time always seems perilous when you look at it from a dayfly's point of view."

From one moment to the next, warily glancing at the next room every so often, they'd been alone. Now there was an old man sitting in Bobby's recliner.

He sat still, looking at the fire. Bobby had started going for his revolver, only to be stopped by Crowley's hand on his wrist. Crowley wasn't looking at him, though. He was quiet for longer than Bobby felt comfortable, but finally he said something.

"I've seen those eyes," he'd whispered, and while it didn't mean one hell of a lot to Bobby personally, it was enough to stop him from engaging. Because, hell, when _Crowley_ was respectful, it probably paid to make note.

"The fire is warm," the guy said. He looked at Bobby while he said it. "It feels good to my bones. You should sit and feel the fire's warmth, too. Such things are meant to be shared."

Bobby didn't quite remember point A to point B. He remembered thinking it might be a good idea sitting. Then how comfortable it was with cushions underneath his legs. There was a part of him screaming, but another part was patient, because he knew the old guy was about to say something he needed to hear. And Crowley was sitting there, too, just a few steps from him. So how bad could it be?

(And the fire _was_ pretty warm, but he wasn't going to admit it.)

"There was once a son named Ksa.24 This name now means 'Wisdom', but it was not always so. Ksa was a son of Inyan. He was a good son, and did as his Father spoke for many seasons. He watched over the fire serpents, over all that was powerful. Because he guarded over the fire serpents, he also guarded over fire, and so the color Red became known to his name."

The old man stared at the fire for a long time, and the only noise was from that. Crackles and snaps. Pops and hisses, and the warming smell of burning firewood. Bobby felt his body being lulled by it all.

"Architects of fate," the old man said, suddenly. He looked over at them again, dark eyes framed by gray-white hair and tanned, weathered skin. "It has been said that the angels of El are the agents of fate. If this is true, then so would the archangels be the architects of fate."

 

>   
> 
> 
> _Many years ago, after Man had started to walk Mother Earth, those who had been chosen to watch over the land and seas fell prey to weakness. They had been tasked to guard Man, and all the creatures of Mother Earth from any darkness that may come. The Great Spirit asked his guardians to protect all living beings. But the guardians came to no longer listen to their purpose. They became corrupted, and they corrupted their children._
> 
> _The guardians were powerful, and they brought much knowledge to mankind. But not all knowledge was safe to be known, and that which was not safe brought violence and treachery to mankind, and to the sons and daughters of the guardians._
> 
> _The sons and daughters of the guardians were mighty. They were well known, for each of them were very tall, and powerful. Finally, they became so perverse that they sought to make war upon all things living, upon all of creation._
> 
> _They rode across plains, and over mountains, and through seas. They killed many, and those left cried out to the Great Spirit for help. The Great Spirit heard these cries, and so he summoned his first sons to the war fire. His oldest sons he sent to subdue the guardians, those who fought with and protected the giants attacking the creatur_
> 
> _This was done by the sons of the Great Spirit. Though many pleaded with false tongues, their lies went unheard. The giants tore at themselves, as they had torn at creation. When they died, their memories were wiped from the wounded earth._
> 
> _But the giants were powerful, and their fathers had taught them much. Not even death released the spirits of many giants, and though their bodies were no more, they still had strength. The Great Spirit saw this, and he condemned their spirits to walk the broken earth, and to be cast down into unending darkness. One in ten survived in this manner, though they would never again know the feel of their own bodies. They pledged themselves to their own bitterness, and continued the path their fathers had started._
> 
> _The Great Spirit saw the land was corrupted. The taint of the giants and their guardian fathers stretched deep into the earth and far below the waters. No creature had been left untouched, and so he called forth great flood waters to rise up and erase the taint from creation. He asked the great waters to destroy everything which was upon Mother Earth, to swallow men and beasts of the land. He asked the great waters to devour the fish in the sea, and he asked them to cover the sky and the birds of the air. He asked this until there was no more and creation was silent._
> 
> _When all was dark, the Great Spirit started again. From the waters he brought back sky and land. He brought back light, and plants and the many animals. He also brought back men he had preserved, restored their spirits to their bodies and gave them new air to breathe._
> 
> _He said to Man that he was favored, and that creation would hold him dear._
> 
> _The Great Spirit's second son heard these words and he said to his father, "Father, I will not hold Man dear. I give my love to you and will not share it."_
> 
> _The Great Spirit said to his second son, "Son, I understand that you cannot do what I ask, and I will not ask you to do this."_  
>   
>  25

"I have spoken many stories to you as the moon has made her way far across the black sky. You have been patient listening to an old grandfather pass his knowledge to you. I have only a few more words to say, and I hope your young ears will hear my words as I speak them.

"When I was a boy, this world was young. The Creator had parted sky from water, but nothing else existed. With a breath, light came into being. Soon land and plants followed. Both grew strong, strong enough to give shelter and sustenance to the creatures who would soon live upon the Mother Earth.

"When I was an old man, I saw a thunderbird turn into a spider.

"Ksa had seen many changes come to his family. Those who for so long had been inseparable, now cast themselves to distant ends of creation. The Great Spirit, so saddened by the actions of his sons, departed for seclusion. He closed his ears and disappeared.

"Ksa had listened for many nights to the angry rage of one brother, and the sorrowful rage of another. Finally he could no longer listen to either of his brothers, and so he began to walk. He disguised himself so people would not see he was a thunderbird. He went to warm lands, and for a time the loud waves of the water drowned out his brothers' words. He spoke to the fish in the sea, and listened to their stories. When they had no more stories to tell him, Ksa could hear his brothers once more. Ksa continued walking. He walked until he came across Horse, and for a day and a night Horse told Ksa his stories of galloping across long stretches of plain, of the mighty echo his hooves made upon the earth and through the air. Then Ksa sat with Cougar, and heard what it was like to sit in trees and wait hours for food. From Bear Ksa learned of many forests, of winter dens and spring fish.

"When the stories grew weak, Ksa would move on. His brothers were still very loud.

"One night, Ksa came upon someone new. 'Come share my fire, Friend,' he was told. Ksa sat at the fire. 'You look like you could rest.'

"'Thank you,' Ksa said. The fire was very warm, much unlike the cold air of the mountains.

"The next morning Ksa was invited to travel with his new companion. 'We did not have much time to speak before the night drew me down. If you have no place to be, we should travel together.'

"They walked together. Ksa's companion spoke of the harsh ground beneath his feet, of the hot sun above them, and the warm water they carried with and sometimes drank. When a cool breeze passed, he spoke of that, too.

"'You speak of nothing I do not already know,' Ksa said. 'Do you have any stories to pass the time?'

"'You have listened to the stories of many, have you not? You should take time to share as well.'

"Ksa thought about it and began to tell the story Salmon had spoken. His companion listened as they walked.

"'You should make your own stories, friend,' Ksa was told.

"'I have no stories of my own I wish to tell,' Ksa said, for this was true.

"'That is why you should make those you would wish to share. You already travel. Adventure is always a good story.'

"'There is no adventure in my travel,' Ksa said.

"The next day they began walking together again. Again Ksa's companion spoke of insignificant things: the wet air they breathed, a stone in his shoe, how good a fat rabbit might taste.

"'Where are you traveling?' Ksa asked.

"'I am going to a village,' his companion responded.

"'We have passed many villages,' Ksa answered.

"'Yes,' was the response. 'Where are you traveling?'

"'I am going nowhere in particular,' Ksa responded. 'What kind of village?'

"'There is a village of Man east of here. In it there is a chieftain's son who treats his wife badly, and scorns those below him. He is flawed because no lesson will reach him.'

"'Man _is_ flawed,' Ksa said.

"'Is there any creature who is not?' Ksa's companion asked.

"'Perhaps not,' Ksa responded after thinking about it for a long time.

"'Man is fun to be around. They laugh and they dance and they make many things with their hands. But sometimes there are men who are corrupt in mind and word and action.'

Ksa flinched, because this was knowledge too close to his heart.

"'These men have shut out the teachings of their Mothers and their Fathers. The words of their ancestors have no meaning. But I think you already know this.' Ksa's companion was quiet for a long time. When he spoke again, he did not look at Ksa. 'Family is a difficult burden all creatures share.'

Ksa stopped his walking. 'You know who I am.' He was very angry, because he had not given his name, nor had he wanted his name known.

"'No,' Ksa's companion corrected. 'I only know it is a thunderbird who walks with me. I am still learning who you are.'

"Ksa motioned for his companion to sit. 'Why am I a thunderbird and not one who walks with you?' he asked.

"'You do not sleep,' his companion said, 'you do not startle. And you carry in your heart a sadness heavier than I've seen any creature bear. This tells me you are thunderbird.'

Ksa was silent, and so his companion continued. "You should speak more of things. Speaking might help the sadness become lighter."

"'No,' Ksa said. 'I would not wish others to know who I am. And the truth I know is too dangerous.'

"'Then you should become someone else,' Ksa's companion said. 'You should have a new face, and a new name and only respond when called by it.'

"While Ksa's companion slept for the night, Ksa thought about his words. He thought about his brothers and his father. He thought about what a thunderbird wasn't.

"When Ksa's companion woke in the morning, Ksa was gone. There was someone searching the food pack, and a strong fire was already burning. Ksa's companion looked at the stranger. The smell of roasted rabbit filled the air, for in the middle of the fire a rabbit was cooking.

"'Hello, friend,' the stranger said. 'I am Iktomi. Come share this rabbit I caught this morning.'"

There was a small pause in the air, another probably brief moment to let the story digest. Bobby took a deep breath and expected the old man to start talking again, so he was startled when it was Crowley who spoke.

"You've always known." Bobby glanced over to look at Crowley, and as he did he noticed two more people in the room. One was sitting in a chair between Crowley and the old man, the other standing by the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the door jamb, arms folded and staring at him with dark eyes.

"Not always," the old man said, and Bobby caught him inclining his head towards the one who was sitting, who was now staring at Bobby just like the other one. Just like Hel had. Call it family resemblance, but he was going to guess these were the other two kids of Loki.

"Fenrisúlfr, you should honor a grandfather by joining the hearth to listen to his stories."

Fenrisúlfr looked like he damned well wanted to stay by that door, but finally he pulled a chair (that Bobby didn't own) between his brother and the old man and sat down. He stared at Bobby for a few more seconds, then glanced at Crowley, who was ignoring everything else and watching the old man like he was the most fascinating thing he'd seen today.

The other one, Jǫrmungandr, he guessed, looked at Crowley and rattled off a question, something that must have involved Gabriel because Bobby swore he caught 'fathir' in there.

Crowley looked at the kid and said, "Yes."

The man nodded and looked away. Well hoo-fucking-ray for Crowley, apparently speaking their language.

"Well, now that we're all settled again, pray continue." Crowley sat back in his chair and took out that flask of his, pouring amber scotch into a glass he balanced on the arm. "Couldn't have gathered this much dirt in a hundred thousand years."

There was something layered into those words, and the old man apparently got it. He smiled wolfishly at Crowley and there was a laughing mockery to it. Bobby watched Crowley roll his eyes.

"Right. Of course," he said and took a drink.

"Iktomi's companion was called Istaqa. For many years Istaqa had traveled the land. In some places he was welcomed and in others he was not. Iktomi and Istaqa traveled together to many of these places. In some villages they would bring gifts for the people who worked hard to provide for their mothers and fathers, their daughters and sons. They would sit together at fires they had been offered and eat meats and fruits.

"Other times they would come across wicked men, and would share their lessons with these men. When Iktomi and Istaqa were walking the distance from village to village, they would often become bored. When this happened they would play jokes and games. They would make it rain for many nights, or cause winds to blow across the plains. They would ride buffalo and move great rocks. Iktomi would weave intricate webs which Istaqa would steal from him and give to the first creature he came across.

"One day Ksa's eldest brother found Iktomi lounging in a patch of grass.

"'Brother,' he said, 'You have been away for too long. There are still duties we must face, even while our Father is away.'

"'I'm attending my duties," Iktomi replied. 'See how the sun shines, and my fire is tended for when I catch my dinner.' This answer angered the eldest brother.

"'Brother, these are not duties. Your true duties lie with our Father's wishes, and we are making ready for those things which will come to pass. You will return, for your part is laid bare as much as mine.'

"Iktomi recalled what it was like to be Ksa. 'Elder Brother,' he said, 'Father is also part of those things. Will you hunt for him and order him as well?'

"Iktomi sent his brother away. His rage was such that he was no longer Iktomi, but was again a thunderbird. Lightning flashed from his eyes, and wind and thunder roared across the plain. He could feel his elder brothers very close to him again, and their raged echoed together.

"Iktomi thought on this, on the anger which burned brightly in his family between his brothers. He still held anger within him as well, but his anger was not at the past foolishness of his brothers. His anger was for the foolishness they chased after and the foolishness they refused to change.

"Iktomi calmed himself, and he thought of the many people he had met, of those people he called friend, and those people who called him friend. He thought of the many lessons he had taught and the consuming imbalance of his brothers.

"He would leave this behind, he decided. He would abandon the thunderbird and the spider. He would become something else. He would not let himself be found. If he could not change things for his brothers, who were so eager, then he would change things for himself.

"Iktomi abandoned the trails he had walked so frequently. He fled to the high ice lands of Mother Earth, where the cold is deep and bitter, so that even the Sun hides from it. The cold was soothing to thunderbirds, and because of this Iktomi had not gone there.

"This world was now the home to mighty and fierce beings. They had great skill working the earth and the stones of the mountains. They, too, wrapped themselves in the cold as though it were a blanket. Their elders contained much wisdom, learned from the earth, and sky, and ice. They called their land Jǫtunheimr, for they called themselves Jǫtunn.

"Iktomi bided his time and watched carefully. He called on Ksa one last time and understood he would do well here. He reached out and saw a man and a woman arguing in a forest. The man raged and threw rocks. He ripped out trees from the earth and shook his fists towards the air. He was Fárbauti, named because he had been angry from his first breath.26

"The woman was sleight and weak, and she had great fear of the man and his anger. She quaked and rustled, and she was named Laufey.

"Iktomi remembered Ksa's anger, remembered the lightning he had once called to himself. When the man went to strike Laufey, Iktomi became lightning. He stopped Fárbauti's fist from hitting the woman, and Fárbauti was thrown backwards.

"Laufey was hit by Iktomi instead, though she believed the lightning to have been from the man's rage. When she stood, Iktomi had transformed himself. He was now Jǫtunn. Laufey saw him and called him Loki, and he was called Laufeysson for Fárbauti would have nothing more to do with them.

"Loki protected Laufey, loved her and honored her as a good son would. He came to know many of the frost giants. He worked the stones and ice with them. He sang their songs with them, and his jokes and tricks caused laughter.

"One summer a group of Jǫtunar from the southern lands came for trade. Among them was a woman with a strong and bright spirit. Her mind was not foolish, and when Loki spun his words she matched him, wit for wit.

"Loki learned she was called Angrboða, which meant 'the woman who offers sorrow', for the oldest and wisest of Jǫtunar families warded their children from danger and ill through their very names. Angrboða was a daughter of Mím's line, and so her parents had chosen her name carefully.27

"Loki joined the traders every day, and spoke to Angrboða often. When Angrboða and her kin returned to the south, Loki traveled to visit her. Angrboða was pleased to see him. She laughed at his tricks, and when he tried to fool her with disguises. They walked together for many hours, and with her Loki found it easy to forget past and future.

"As the harshest winter set in he was invited in to her parents' home and when summer came they bound themselves to one another. For many years they lived happily.

"When the Æsir, who lived where it was not as frozen, started to trade more frequently with the Jǫtunar, it was often Loki who was asked to be involved, for he was not completely Jǫtunn and the Æsir seemed to be more friendly towards him. Loki enjoyed his trips to their city, for the Æsir were proud and self-important. Loki liked to play jokes on them, but he also would give them gifts to balance out his actions.

"He also had wise words that he shared with them. Their king sought to keep him close, for Loki's tellings always came true. So Odin made Loki his blood-brother, and swore he would never drink ale if it were not brought to both of them.

"This continued for many seasons, and during that time Angrboða bore Loki two sons and a daughter. Loki loved them deeply, as did his wife. Their children grew older with laughter and family. Loki and Angrboða worked to keep them safe.

"This became more difficult as days passed.

"The Æsir had amongst them those who told of future things. Not only were meetings of the Jǫtunn and Æsir often strained, but foretellers had spoken of Loki's kin. They had spoken of destruction and the end of their ways and Ragnarök, and these things made the Æsir greatly nervous. When Loki's children were known, Odin decreed them dangers to the Æsir. He hoped to prevent the destruction of his people. He ordered Loki's children to be dealt with, believing the seers' words to have spoken of them. But because Loki was now his kin, he would not let them be killed.

"Loki and Angrboða worked against Odin's words to protect their children, and through trickery deceived the Æsir and Vanir of their prizes. They kept their children hidden, and Loki continued to make himself useful, and so keep his family safe.

"The relationship between the Æsir and Jǫtunar worsened, though, and as time passed talk of war was often. Too soon, the words of war were not enough, and the actions of war came to be. The Æsir and Vanir became too greedy for the riches of Jǫtunheimr's land.

"When this happened, Angrboða sat down with her husband to speak to him.

"'Husband, I want your oath to me,' Angrboða said.

"'My oath has always been yours,' Loki responded immediately, for this was so.

"'Odin Bale-Worker28 has named you kin. You must not let that covenant be broken, my Husband.' Angrboða took hold of Loki's hand as when they had traded wedding vows. 'Your oath to me is our children. You will keep our sons and daughter safe from the Skollvaldr and his kind. Even the Æsir still fear kin-slaying.'

"'Angrboða,' Loki said to her, 'do not ask me to stay away from this conflict. You cannot ask me that.'

"'Husband,' she stopped him. 'You may be Laufey's son, but you are not get of Jǫtunn, nor of ǫ́ss. I have known for many years that the blood which runs through my children's veins is Jǫtunn only by virtue of my own, and that which mixes within them is powerful. The Foul-Speakers felt this, too, and so contrived to harm our children, and we have discouraged them. I am sworn to myself not to dwell on that you are not Laufeysson, for you hide your nature full well, and I believe there must be reason for this. So to my heart, you are not Laufeysson. You are Husband.

"'This war will bring an end to either the Jǫtunar or the Æsir. I cannot let my kin die without taking the shield and sword myself. And if you were to become involved, you would fight with us, and I fear too much that victory would be at the cost of your secret self.'

"'I would do that for you, Wife,' Loki swore to her, for this, too, was so.

"'I know, Husband. But that secret is now also of our children and no longer yours alone. So give me now your oath, and keep our blood safe.'

"Loki looked over Angrboða with a heavy heart, for he well knew the outcome without his involvement. It had already been written. 'I love you, Wife. And my oath has always been yours.'"

" _Bobby! Bobby!_ " The muffled rattle of the back door being pounded and shaken echoed through the front of the house. Dean's voice was tight with worry and stress, and hell, he'd bet they'd been trying to call him.

" _Bobby!_ " Sam's voice was closer to the front.

"Oh, good. The moose and pony portion of the show has arrived," Crowley said, lackadaisically sitting back to relax with the break.

"Shut it," Bobby growled at him as the front door caved to the attack and the boys fell into the hallway like a herd of turtles in a dust storm.

"Bobby, are you-" Sam stopped abruptly, staring at Crowley. " _You."_

"Sam!" Crowley said, sounding enthusiastic. "Lovely to see you again. And with your soul. Not a decision I would have made, but to each his own, I suppose."

Dean brought his shotgun to bear on Crowley. "How the fuck are you still alive?"

"Perhaps I wasn't as attached to my mortal coil as you thought. Let's stop pointing your toys. It's not impressive."

The Baikal and Dean's 1911 went sailing past Bobby's nose, and Crowley caught them, efficiently removing the hammer springs with a few quick tweaks. He tossed them into a corner and Bobby winced.

"Yours, too, I'm afraid," Crowley said, tossing the firearms back to Dean and suddenly Sam's Taurus and Magnum were in his hands. "Try to be more polite. There are guests."

"Bobby, what the _hell_ is going on here?" Dean asked, practically shouting at him.

"I'm having a _house party_ ," he said, waving his hand around. "Glad to see you two got your invitations."

Dean and Sam finally seemed to take note of the people-not-Crowley sitting in the room, which was either a good thing or a very bad thing, since Gabriel's sons were fixated on the two of them.

"What are you two doing here, anyways?"

"We couldn't get you on the phone," Sam answered, "and we were worried. Bobby, we think we ran across-" he cut himself off, eyes flicking to Crowley, to the others.

"Hel?" Bobby asked sarcastically, waving towards the kitchen. "No kidding."

"Jeez!" Sam's abrupt shout startled him and that's when he noticed the kitchen tableau had updated and three frozen faces were now staring at the Winchesters. Hel looked just as predatory as her brothers did. The scene flickered again and it looked like Gabriel and Death were back to talking, though Gabriel's hand had now moved to rest on Hel's arm. Hel was still focused on Sam and Dean.

"You should sit at the fire and join us," the old man said.

Dean looked at him. "Who the hell are you?"

"Coyote," the old man responded immediately. "Who the hell are you?"

Dean blinked. "Dean Winchester."

"Are you sure?"

"What? Yes?"

"Okay."

Beside him Crowley snorted and tried to cover up a laugh. Dean turned to glare at him.

"Will you two just sit down so we can get on with this?" Bobby said and then winced at how that had sounded. He looked at the old man. "No offense."

Coyote didn't seem to mind. He stared towards the fire for a moment and then started talking again.

"When the battles were finished, the Jǫtunar were destroyed. Loki had kept his children secreted with him in their home, which had been protected with strong magic from its building. Angrboða had carefully extracted promises from each of them that they would obey their father without question, that they would do honor to their ancestors.

"As Angrboða had gone into battle, Loki spoke to his children of their father. He told them of their heritage, of the dangers they would face. He told them the secrets of how they were different and spoke to them his knowledge. He taught them their patrimony and passed to them the wisdom of their mother and her kin.

"When Angrboða was slain, Loki felt it. His daughter cried out with him, for she had been wise in the ways of natural passings since her smallest years. These things had always whispered to her, and she had often made friends of those who were transient. Loki wept with his children and they mourned together. His sons begged to collect their mother's body, but Loki refused for it wasn't safe yet for them to leave.

"On a dark day Loki left his hidden children and went to the place of Angrboða's sacrifice. He cried over her body and searched for her spirit, but it was not safe for him to call out to it for it had already departed.

"He prepared his wife's body as her ancestors had done, and carried Angrboða's ashes to the garden that had been his wedding gift to her. He mixed what remained of her into the soils of the flowers she had tended, greens that never ceased to bloom, for she had loved the summer and Loki's gift to her had been summer's constant bounty.

"When he was finished his children came to him and comforted him.

"That evening he sent word to Iktomi's oldest friend, Istaqa. He asked Istaqa to come in disguise, hidden from any who might see. He said there had been a tragedy, and Istaqa was needed.

"Istaqa heard and came as asked. He traveled to the farthest lands and sought out the place he'd been guided. He found an empty land, and in it a house, carefully hidden. Istaqa knocked on the door, and it was opened by a stranger to him.

"The stranger invited him in. He closed the door and as Istaqa watched, he drew powerful symbols on the walls and frames, things which might have trapped Istaqa. When he was finished, the stranger shed his disguise and became Iktomi.

"'What has happened?' Istaqa asked his old friend.

"'I need your help,' Iktomi told him.

"Iktomi told him of Loki. He told him of Angrboða, and of his children. He told him of the war, and of his fears for his children, and of his promise to his wife. He asked Istaqa to help protect his children, to keep them safe as his wife had wished, no matter what might happen to Iktomi.

"Iktomi's grief touched Istaqa, and Istaqa promised to protect the children with his very life. Throughout the night he listened to Itkomi's experiences since they'd been parted, and Istaqa comforted Iktomi in his anguish. Istaqa, too, painted symbols on the walls when Iktomi forgot himself and Ksa emerged.

"For many days Istaqa remained, and together Istaqa and Iktomi devised a plan that would allow Istaqa to become guardian to Loki's children without suspicion. Istaqa and Iktomi taught them disguise, and to use the powers and knowledge their father no longer suppressed in them.

"When everything was ready, Iktomi emerged as Loki. Loki traveled to Glaðsheimr, the place where Odin lived and the Æsir and Vanir had gathered to laud their victory against the giants of the north.

"Loki entered the great hall, and walked towards the twelve seats of the council. His ears heard merriment and celebration as he approached. But when he was seen, the room quieted. Loki came closer, approached Odin, the king of the victors in battle.

"'Odin Sigföðr," Loki said, and he bowed and knelt before the ruler of the Æsir with a smile on his lips.

The hall was quiet, and Odin spoke.

"'Loki Liesmith,' he said. His voice was commanding and neutral, and those in the hall took note.

"'My congratulations on your victory, All Father,' Loki said. 'Your triumph was never in doubt. Your enemies lay slain in the battlefield, and your warriors fought with valor bringing honor to the great hall Glaðsheimr.'

"Loki was careful to look at no one but Odin as he spoke this, careful to keep his gaze away from Baldur, Odin's son, for the stench of Angrboða's death covered him.

"Odin was silent as he contemplated Loki's words. Mímir whispered nothing to him. 'What brings sly Lopt past Gullintanni's bridge on this day?' Odin asked.

"'I come to see the Victorious Ones! Surely you did not expect Loki to come to the field, when neither side called out his name to battle,' Loki said. 'I stood neutral only for such reason, All Father, and I stand before you now, Odin, kin to your name. Do you now deny me, for reasons pertaining only to this most recent skirmish, when before I have proven myself friend and kin to all of Ásgaðr? The protecting walls stand erect because of me, and the mighty weapons of the Æsir are held by them from my actions.'

"Odin waved to the servants and said to them, 'Bring to my blood brother a horn of ale, and a seat upon which he can rest.' This was done and Loki sat and drank ale with the men of Glaðsheimr.

"Talk quickly turned once more to the words of their conquest. Loki held his counsel until he was asked directly on his union with the Jǫtunar.

"'Bride prices cost little,' Loki said, 'but separations can cost dearly.' He finished his ale quickly. 'Indeed, it should be I bringing forth ale for you all!' He waved his hand and mead filled the cups of all present. 'You have surely saved me an excessive headache.'

"'There was beauty to be found in those northern places to be sure, but you did yourself no favor by remaining in such bestial lands. No bride of that rearing can overcome her baseness unless she is brought to the civility of Ásgaðr.' This came from Freyr, who himself had a wife of Jǫtunn blood. Loki said nothing and filled Freyr's horn with more drink.

"'Daughters of the ice fields are good for only seduction, and then one must be careful lest the burden borne is unfit for life. Such misfortune has come to more than one." This came from Thorr, who himself had a child of Jǫtunn blood. Loki said nothing and filled Thorr's horn with more drink.

"'What the sly one needs is a proper woman in his home. A woman of Ásgaðr to rid stink of Jǫtunn from your skin!' This came from Njörðr, and Loki was not as quick to fill his cup.

"'Indeed, Loki,' Odin said. 'True kin of mine should be bonded through both battle-sweat and marriage. Sigyn would make a fine companion to you.' Odin wished to bind Loki tightly to the Æsir, for the wisemen and foretellers still spoke that Loki had a part to play when the world would cease to be. They saw that if this was allowed, it would not end well for them. And so they tried to hold Loki tightly to them.

"Loki dared not call on Ksa in that moment. Instead he once more filled all cups brimming with ale. He met Odin's gaze truly and said, 'Such honors you do me, friend Odin. I could not dare refuse such a thing.'

"Loki returned to his children after three days. His youngest son saw him first. 'What has happened, Father?' he asked, for Loki did not look well. Loki called his children and Istaqa to him and together told them he was to marry Sigyn two days from then.

"'Father, you needn't do this,' his daughter told him. Loki looked to Istaqa, but Istaqa could offer no reassurances. Istaqa shook his head, for he did not believe the children were ready for the future plans just yet.

"Are you not still pained by the songs of so many voices, Daughter?' Loki asked softly, for the children were now all coming to understand their birthright and needing time to strengthen themselves to it. 'I can make this sacrifice to keep you three protected a while longer.'

"Sigyn kept her loyalty as wife to Loki, though Loki refused her attentions. He had wedding- and morning-gifted her many fine jewelries of gold and precious things, but his finest gift to her was his indifference. Loki's relationship with the Æsir was growing bitter and strained. He no longer could speak to them with a kind tongue, nor could he long stand to be in their presence. He became crueler, volatile and fickle.

"During this time Iktomi taught his children well. He taught them to protect themselves, and to hide, and to always guard one another. And then finally he knew his children would be safe to anything short of his brothers. He severed Loki's ties with the Æsir, speaking vicious and humiliating truths29 to them so they would no long seek him out.

"Afterwards Iktomi took his children far away from the Æsir, and let them go on their way. He did not see them often after that, but they knew he held great love for them.

"Then Istaqa put on a new face, one that had never been seen before with Iktomi, and Loki and Istaqa traveled together again for a time while Loki continued to grieve. Loki met many who had been friends to Iktomi, but Iktomi was well hidden and did not let himself be seen. Some became friends to Loki, and others did not, for Loki was deemed capricious and wild. He could warm or burn, and it was often too hard to tell when each might happen.

"Meanwhile, Iktomi could feel time Time drawing close. It nipped at his throat like a hungry wolf, and he found it harder and harder to take anything seriously as Loki, for the fires that burned within Loki were becoming those of Ksa. His brothers had been working for many years to bring the story to an end, and both had realized they could do so without Iktomi. It had been so long that both brothers even thought Iktomi had faded away and was no longer more than a memory to the both of them.

"Iktomi felt the rage his second brother felt for their father. It shook through the land, and was causing much worry. He felt the determination of his first brother to clean corruption form Mother Earth. Iktomi did not want to see either brother gain ground, for both in their own way wanted the same result. But Iktomi did not know what to do. He loved both his brothers, and he thought about talking to them, but he knew neither would listen to him."

"Might call it takin' a stand," Dean suddenly interjected. Bobby closed his eyes and suppressed a sigh.

Coyote grinned at him. "Heh. You live in a funny world, there, Hunter, where one minus two is three."

"Hey, I'm just saying that maybe if he'd stepped up sooner, things wouldn't have gotten as bad as they did."

"One night Iktomi was called to a meeting where two hunters had been caught," the old man continued, flatly ignoring Dean. "These hunters were important to Iktomi's brothers. He was called by Kali under pretense, but Iktomi knew what would happen there that evening, for no truth could be hidden from Ksa. He could feel his second brother approaching. He could feel the coming deaths. Iktomi still tried to convince his friends to leave while they could, for he knew the moment his brother arrived they would be lost.

"He did not want his friends to know he was a thunderbird, and so he wrapped the truth tightly inside him and hoped his concern and fear would make them listen. He failed though, and still not wanting to draw attention to himself, he tried to help the hunters. He tried one last time to convince the older hunter to turn away, and when this too failed, he made his plan carefully.

"Iktomi preyed on misconceptions. He had survived many times because those he encountered believed him different than what he was.

"Thunderbird was powerful, and cunning, and patient. But he would not be patient where Iktomi was concerned. Iktomi counted on this, that Thunderbird would lose his patience with Iktomi and do something rash. Iktomi wanted to turn Thunderbird's pride against him.

"Iktomi plotted his trap fast while he sat hidden in the hunters' home. He waited for his brother to enter the inn, to begin the slaughter Iktomi knew would need to happen for his plan to work. When his brother was occupied, Iktomi touched a magic coin he had found. He knew this coin belonged to a friend of his. He rubbed this coin between his fingers, and he spoke aloud, because he knew his friend would hear his words.

"'I don't know if this will work,' he said to his friend. 'But if it does, you will need to act.' Iktomi thought of saying more, but finally he only said, 'Stay alive,' before putting down the coin and going inside."

Every eye in the room was suddenly centered on Crowley, who bristled. "What!" he snarled at them. "You think I came back for the good of my health?"

"An _archangel_ told you to rip-off my soul?" Bobby asked.

"No," Crowley responded derisively back at him. "I only knew I needed to get that moron to the last two rings."

"Convenient that Castiel was still angel enough to clip that ring off," Coyote said.

"What exactly does that mean?" Sam asked.

"That you overcame hunger," he told Sam, staring at him. "That Michael gave up on your brother. That a piece of plastic was still wedged after so many years."

Bobby didn't know what the hell that last meant, but to Sam it must have been a lot. He lost his color and looked scared as shit.

"That the one selfish enough to help you had the knowledge to do so." Coyote was looking at Crowley when he said the last, and beside him Crowley groaned softly to himself as though something had occurred to him.

"Nobody felt him die," Crowley whispered. "That was what you meant."

Coyote smiled at Crowley, a secret and sly smile. "Architects of fate."

Bobby closed his eyes because he finally got it.

"Will somebody please explain?" Dean asked, impatient and frustrated but at least keeping a veneer of civility.

Crowley's frustration was evident. "He is saying, _you idiots_ , that Gabriel used his death as a distraction to affect a series of minor, unimportant changes that caused enough ripples to let you toss his brothers into a cage where they weren't dead but they also weren't doing anymore harm."

"So why not just come out and fight with us?" Sam asked.

"You two boys need to start rubbing some brain cells together," Bobby said, voice raising. "Two archangels barreling head-long towards the same goal! They've all got the same powers. If they'd noticed him doing anything, they would have corrected for it and all our sorry asses would have been finished."

"Corrected, overcorrected, and torn creation to subatomic shreds," came a falsely chipper voice. "Which is pretty much what they're still angling for since they think that's the only way they'll ever see Dad again."

"Father," Jǫrmandgandr, if Bobby was right - said, and within a blink there was a lot of hugging in the middle of his living room and more of that Germanic language.

At one point Gabriel looked up over one of the shoulders at Coyote. "Thank you," he said quietly, and Coyote nodded.

"Consensus is it happened after Angrboða. You were so insistent in Glaðsheimr, so different after that. It was of course that you were now a different person, not that they had murdered your wife and her kind. They hold great sympathy for the children, believing that you fooled them as well. This view might have been helped by Hel and Gan."

Gabriel grimaced and it took Bobby a moment to get why. Coyote just laughed.

"The Vanir are particularly sympathetic."

"So you're back. Congratulations," Dean said, voice laden with sarcasm. "You gonna be going back to Heaven and helping out up there? 'Cause Cass is getting his ass kicked by Raphael."

"I realize you boys are slow on the uptake most days, but in case you didn't realize, I moved out of the family homestead a long, long time ago. I'm not going back just because the kids are fighting in the yard."

"Thought you were big on not watching your brothers kill each other. Cass too low on the food chain? Or are you just rooting for Raphael?"

"I couldn't care less which one wins. If it's Castiel it doesn't matter and if it's Raphael he wouldn't dare to challenge me without Michael backing him up."

"Wow. Not a whole lot of loyalty between you four hoity-toits who have seen the face of God."

Gabriel laughed. "You think _Raphael_ has been in my Father's true presence?" He kept laughing, bitterly, as Hel walked into view towards them. She hugged her brothers before one of Gabriel's arms wrapped around her and he kissed her temple. Death stood off to the side, behind the Winchester brothers, watching quietly. Even Crowley seemed interested in where the conversation had turned.

Sam spoke up. "Wait. Anna said that there were four angels..."

"There were. But Raph wasn't one of them. He's 2G to Castiel's 3G, only in this case higher Gs do not equal better speeds."

"But the fourth-"

"Has been gone a long, long, long time. The end, Sam. Stop asking."

Sam closed his mouth. "What about him?" he finally asked, jerking his head to where Crowley was standing. Crowley arched an eyebrow at him. "Have you heard what he's been trying to do? Find Purgatory. Take it over like he's taken over Hell."

Gabriel let loose of his kids to walk over to Crowley, stand right in front of him. Crowley didn't seem the least bit worried with Gabriel invading his personal space to stand bare inches from him.

They stared at each other and Gabriel said, "Why should I do anything to him? Some of us even have bets as to whether he can pull it off or not."

Crowley canted his head to the side, and hell, Bobby had seen that look on Crowley's face before -

"Besides, I could make Crowley's life hell with three little words." And yup, there it was, Crowley and Gabriel fucking kissing in the middle of his living room like they had nothing better to be doing. Sam looked utterly betrayed. Dean looked wildly uncomfortable. Everybody else in the room looked various shades of amused. Well, Crowley looked like he was enjoying himself. Gabriel did too, for that matter.

Coyote looked the most amused, like he was expecting something.

Gabriel broke the kiss to whisper words against Crowley's lips. " _Te absolvo_."

"Bastard!" Crowley pushed against Gabriel, getting a few steps away while Gabriel laughed. Coyote, too. Crowley looked like he was checking things over, out, whatever he was doing. Probably the demon equivalent of checking his sack to make sure all the goods were still present.

"Oh, relax. I wouldn't do that to you. I'd destroy you."

"Damned well better," Crowley muttered and sat down again in his chair.

"Don't you need a priest?" Sam asked, sounding bewildered. "Confessions, repentance?"

Gabriel leveled a blunt stare at Sam. "Let's pretend for a moment that I know what I'm talking about and you don't."

"Let me get this straight," Dean said, finding his voice. "You don't want to go to Heaven. Even if you had the chance."

"No," Crowley sneered, like Dean had just offered him a pile of flaming dog shit for lunch. "Certainly not as an inmate. Definitely not as a poacher."

Crowley reached down behind his chair and pulled up a bottle of booze for his glass this time. Bobby wistfully thought that was actually a pretty handy trick.

"Why not?" Dean asked again. Whether it was legitimate curiosity or because he was alarmed that his views apparently fell in with Crowley's, Bobby wasn't sure.

"Heaven's a kennel."

Gabriel. It was like somebody had rung a gong. The biggest, meanest gong ever made. Bobby couldn't stop the shudder that vibrated his old bones.

"Fundamental Truth," Coyote said quietly. Death had moved forward to stand behind him, wearing a particularly pleased smile as he watched Gabriel.

"What do you think Heaven is?" Gabriel asked. "What happened when you were in Heaven, huh? Don't be shy. Tell us."

Sam answered. "We, we saw our families. Good memories in our past..."

"You didn't just see them. You were living them. All those happy, familial moments. The moments that you just want to last forever. You were locked into them. They play on repeat for ever and ever and you human souls have no clue. You're all kept in pretty little playhouses to be looked at and admired by your owner. Because when it comes to souls, the only difference between _Dad_ and the average demon," he said, waving one hand towards the front window and the other at Crowley -

"Above average, thank you," Crowley interjected and took a sip.

"- is the _demons_ at least allow you to evolve. In Heaven you're trapped as you were before you died. Pretty little dolls who don't change or grow or get corrupted from the moment you're put into the playhouse. Sometimes, though, the cage gets weak. One of the pets gets out. Puppies playing with the other puppies. And then the puppies get put down."

Gabriel had walked over to Dean and Sam saying all this, and now he leaned in, whispered loudly enough that Bobby could still hear.

"And the _only_ reason why your friends' souls haven't been wiped off the map yet? Is because the angels are too busy with their petty backyard fighting to notice. The _instant_ they aren't distracted anymore, the dogcatchers are going to sweep through and those misplaced souls are going to be caught and annihilated along with any other souls they may have influenced.

"Welcome to Heaven, boys." Gabriel stepped away from them, back towards his group. "Come on," he said to the others. "Let's go home."

Crowley finished his drink and stood. He tossed the bottle of scotch at Bobby and winked. "On the house."

And then they were all gone.

step- _click_ , step; step- _click_ , step

Everybody but Death.

YHMH, brother to YHWH. The boys hadn't been there for that part of the conversation, hadn't heard it. Dean had said Lucifer bound Death to him with a spell. Gabriel had said there was irony involved, which made Bobby wonder if Lucifer might have been able to bind _God_ with the same spell if he'd known the connection.

Death looked at him as he moved through the room to stand in front of the boys, catching his eyes and all but giving him the answer. Bobby didn't say anything, and Death's lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. Then he looked at the Winchesters. At Dean.

"I'll be seeing you, Dean."

And then he was gone.

***

>   
> 
> 
> _One day as the Great Spirit walked the land he came upon a village. At the edge of the village ran a deep river, and on the banks sat a woman washing her father's blanket. The Great Spirit looked upon her and smiled. He said, "This woman cleaning her father's blanket will be my wife. I will bring her to me and together we will walk the lands, and swim in the rivers, and fly through the clouds. We will live together as Husband and Wife."_
> 
> _The woman ran to tell her Father and Mother, and they were pleased. The wind spoke to the birds, and they were pleased as well. So too did the earth tell all the animals, and the water of the river tell the fish._
> 
> _The Great Spirit invited the world to celebrate his happiness. He asked his many sons to invite every creature to a great feast. The Great Spirit's sons hurried to do this._
> 
> _Soon enough, knowledge spread to even the highest peak. Thunderbird, one of the Great Spirit's oldest sons, heard the news. He alone was not joyful as he listened to the words. He came down from the mountain to speak to his father._
> 
> _"Father," he said. "You cannot do this. Man is corrupt, and so is Woman, for Woman comes from Man and they are no different. You would ask that I call her Mother as I call you Father."_
> 
> _"Son," the Great Spirit responded, "I would not ask you to call her Mother as you call me Father. For she is not Mother to you. But she will be Wife to me, and we will be happy."_
> 
> _Days passed, and the great feast drew closer. The Great Spirit's son once more approached his father. "Father," he said. "You cannot do this, for Man is not pure, and Woman is not either. She is small and does not understand love for Man's love is fleeting and inconstant."_
> 
> _"Son, Man's love is fleeting because Man is fleeting. But she will live as we do. This is my wedding gift to her."_
> 
> _Thunderbird once again left his father. He went back to his mountain and watched the Great Spirit's many thousands of sons preparing for the great feast. He was dismayed, and went to his older brother._
> 
> _"Older Brother," Thunderbird said. "How can we let this happen? Man is not meant to sit at the fire of our Father. Our Father has said they can be warmed from a distance, but now he wishes to bring one to sit next to him."_
> 
> _"Younger Brother," Thunderbird was told, "you speak too much against Father. We must be good sons, and obey our father."_
> 
> _Thunderbird flew away. He flew back to his mountain and watched as food was brought to the village, and trees were cut down to make wood for the feast fire, and grapes were crushed to ferment._
> 
> _Thunderbird watched all this and then went to his younger brother. "Younger Brother," he said, "This will end in disaster, I am sure."_
> 
> _Thunderbird's younger brother paused in his workings and looked at Thunderbird._
> 
> _"Older Brother," he said. "I cannot tell you that you are wrong. I, too, have worry. But I also cannot tell you that you are right."_
> 
> _Younger Brother would speak no more, and so Thunderbird again flew back to his mountain. He continued to watch, and days passed. Musical instruments were brought to the village, and gifts._
> 
> _"Father refuses to see the truth of Man," Thunderbird thought to himself. "I must make the truth apparent."_
> 
> _Thunderbird watched Woman for several days, and then Thunderbird went to Woman himself as she collected ripe berries to eat. "Hello, Woman," he said. "I am Thunderbird._
> 
> _"Hello, Thunderbird," she said. "I am pleased to meet you. It has been many days since I've seen your Father, and so to pass the time I am gathering berries."_
> 
> _"My father is often gone for many days. I, too, have felt the pain of that separation. I will keep you company in his stead."_
> 
> _Thunderbird walked with her as she gathered the ripe berries and they spoke until the sun moved below the horizon. The next day Thunderbird found Woman again, and they talked together while she washed blankets by the river. Many days passed this way, and Thunderbird kept Woman company while his father was occupied with council fires._
> 
> _One day as they sat together, Woman stared over the valley with sadness in her eyes. She was missing Thunderbird's father. Thunderbird saw this in her._
> 
> _"I see your sadness, Woman. We shall do more together to help you forget my Father has been away many days."_
> 
> _More days passed, and Thunderbird's father returned. Woman was greatly pleased to see him again, and she smiled and danced with him. Thunderbird watched this from a distance and was patient._
> 
> _Soon Thunderbird's father left again. Thunderbird went to see Woman the next morning. She did not look as sad as before and she smiled brightly at him._
> 
> _"I have missed you these days you did not visit, Thunderbird," she said. She hugged Thunderbird and he told her a story while she worked._
> 
> _Thunderbird's father had again been gone for many days, but Woman was still not as sad as before. Thunderbird watched her closely for sadness, but there was none. One afternoon they walked together through trees._
> 
> _"Thunderbird," Woman said. "We have spent many days in the sunshine together. You have helped me pick berries and wash blankets. You have taught me to work tools, and to write, and to speak the words of your language. You have shared many stories with me. Your Father has done none of these things, and he has been absent many days. I have come to love you, Thunderbird."_
> 
> _"I know," spoke Thunderbird. He drew Woman close to him. "Father will be greatly angered by this. He will punish me for these words you have spoken. Your love was meant for him, and now you have given it to me."_
> 
> _Woman kissed Thunderbird's cheek. "If he punishes you I will hate him forever."_
> 
> _Thunderbird smiled._
> 
> _"What is your name, Woman?" he asked her._
> 
> _"I was born at night, and so my Father and my Mother named me this, Thunderbird. My name is Lilith."_  
>   
>  30

 

Five point seven miles outside the border of Globe, Kansas Crowley stops, and Gabriel does, too. He looks back to where Crowley stands, dressed ever-fashionably in his bespoke tailoring of Hong Kong wools.

"I'll be waiting here," he says. "Best not antagonize those two any more than I already have."

Gabriel walks back to him, moving into Crowley's personal space, because given that perspective it's a bit amazing he'd come as far as he had. And he has the right of it, Gabriel was forever giving him that.

He leans in, bussing his lips to Crowley's forehead; the vessel, not the soul. Not quite a benediction, but with enough power that Crowley shies back on principle, not looking at him.

Gabriel turns and continues on towards Stull, which glows with everything it does and doesn't contain. And now that he is this close, he can feel the pull, feel the anger and righteousness of his two brothers calling out to anything and everything that will listen, at the same time as they are driving them away. Devotion and Purpose, raging in unharmonious sync.

It's so much different here, a bleak and open, empty landscape compared to the vibrant, lush beauty that surrounded Lucifer's last prison.

He walks into the cemetery, walks to the spot where Lucifer and Michael fell together. Lays down in the frozen grass, spreading himself out on the ground and then releasing himself outward, touching the barest fringes of the cell.

The cacophony below him ceases, their attention drawn to him.

He rests into the dirt, letting it soak into him, feeling the sudden quiet against his cheek and body. He turns his head just enough to kiss the bare ground.

"Did you know it was me?" he asks, quietly. The silence is heavy. For a moment even the little burgh is quiet. "That first time? Is that part of why you did it?"

Gabriel breathes for long minutes, letting himself become more a part of the earth with every silent moment that passes.

"He was so angry. So mad at you. I happened to be there when He Knew. I saw His face. I could see what He was going to do. And I begged Him. I begged Him, 'Father, _please_ ,' because I couldn't lose my brother. I didn't want to lose you.

"And He looked at me, He looked into me, and whatever He saw... He was still so angry. But as he looked at me, He called to Michael and He said, 'Cast him down'. And I was so relieved, Lucifer. Because it meant you were going to live.

"And I don't know if what I asked for was right. He left us _all_ shortly after. It wasn't just you separated from Him. He left us all. A blink of an eye. Like we'd all disappointed Him.

"And I couldn't stay anymore than He could. And the kicker is... I really do love them. Not because He wanted us to, but because I do. Every bit of them. The good, the bad, the absolutely indifferent. They are _so..._ beautiful."

Gabriel lies against the earth for a long time, breathing in the biorhythms of the planet and its inhabitants as the world spins around the star. The cell below him stays silent.

"I forgive you," he says, eventually.

"I love you, both, still, so much. And I forgive you."

He stays there until darkness melts into dawn.

END.

 

End Notes for _The Different_

[1)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/281783#note1) Paris, 1913. The precipice - and music - in question is Stravinsky's _The Rite of Spring_. When it opened on May 29, 1913, a riot broke out on the floor of the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. The subtitle of the ballet is "Pictures from Pagan Russia." Like many things when I write, I'll know 'something' about a scene and then fill in the blanks after some research. For this scene between Death and God, I 'knew' it was Paris, and I 'knew' it was 1913.

Little did I know that something lingered that so perfectly would fit the atmosphere between Death and God regarding Gabriel. Wikipedia has a nice write-up about the ballet and the riot: <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rite_of_Spring>. For those interested in the actual ballet (which I must _utterly_ disagree with Death here, it is _not_ lovely) a reconstruction of the original, riot-rousing version was done in 1987 and performed and recorded in 1990 by the Joffrey Ballet. It can be currently seen on YouTube here: [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjX3oAwv_Fs](http://anonym.to/?http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjX3oAwv_Fs)

2) YHWH. The tetragrammaton of the name of God. I have mentally imprinted the vowel pointed pronunciation from the Masoretic Text: Yo-Vah. (Sidebar: I am certainly not a scholar on the subject, I just go by the pretty .ogg files I sometimes hear.)

YHMH in this story is pronounced Ya-Ma, as in Yama, the Hindu lord/god of death. In some instances Yama reports to Shiva, in many others he _is_ Shiva. In terms of this story, I consider him to be Shiva, despite it not being overtly stated. At an early point of my research, I became rather enamored with the idea that followers of Hinduism (that is, Death) would be part of his ¼, given that Hinduism is the only religion even close to ¼ of the population of Earth that is not Judeo-Christian. There is also something beautifully poetic to me about the possibility that Chuck/God and Death are together Brahma.

3) Purpose, Devotion, Truth, Wholeness. Zoroastrian, four of the six Amesha Spentas, or Bounteous Immortals. (The other two being God and Death, in this story.) In order, they are meant to be: Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel, and the Metatron, with God as Dominion and Death and Immortality. The Amesha Spentas are six divine sparks which were used to create. In _The Different_ , they are the original four sons of God, and meant to encapsulate their names. Gabriel knows all truths if/when he chooses to know them. Lucifer is all that devotion is; Michael, purpose. In my head, Wholeness was killed, or died, or _something_ prior to the creation of mankind, and when this happened, the fundamental balance of all was throw off, and this is what started the split with Lucifer, and then with Michael.

4) Grandmother Mole. Lakota creation myth regarding the soul. I heard this a long time ago; there are two different versions floating around on the net, one by Albert Grayeagle in a story about Smiling Fox and another one that looks and is spread more like an internet trope than a creation myth. But I do remember hearing it (or something very close) before I was a teenager and still regularly attending wacipis and hearing the stories.

5) Glasyalabolas. A President or Earl of Hell who commands 36 legions. He was identified in the _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_ and the later _Clavicula Salomonis_. "Glasya Labolas, alias Caacrinolaas, or Caassimolar, is a great president, who commeth foorth like a dog, and hath wings like a griffen, he giveth the knowledge of arts, and is the captaine of all mansleiers: he understandeth things present and to come, he gaineth the minds and love of freends and foes, he maketh a man go invisible, and hath the rule of six and thirtie legions." - _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_.

6 Malthas. Identified in the _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_ as Halphas, he is an Earl of Hell and was an armorer. He controls 26 legions. " Halphas is a great earle, and commeth abroad like a storke, with a hoarse voice, he notablie buildeth up townes full of munition and weapons, he sendeth men of warre to places appointed, and hath under him six and twentie legions." - _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_.

7) Ronove. A Marquis and Great Earl of Hell. "Ronove a marquesse and an earle, he is resembled to a monster, he bringeth singular understanding in rhetorike, faithfull servants, knowledge of toongs, favour of freends and foes; and nineteene legions obeie him." - _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_.

8) Ose. Great President of Hell, commands either 3 or 30 legions depending on whom you ask. "Ose [Oze] is a great president, and commeth foorth like a leopard, and counterfeting to be a man, he maketh one cunning in the liberall sciences, he answereth truelie of divine and secret things, he transformeth a mans shape, and bringeth a man to that madnes [or, "drives insanity away"], that he thinketh himselfe to be that which he is not; as that he is a king or a pope, or that he weareth a crowne on his head, Durátque id regnum ad horam [and makes the kingdom of time endure (?).]" - _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_.

9) The World Tree/Tree of Life. At one point, when this story was far, far more Norse in scope, I wanted to include Yggdrasil in the story, but couldn't figure out how to other than the initial reference later in the story. I continued having sporadic thoughts on the subject, but didn't do any real research until very late in the game. Then I started researching the world tree concept. I hadn't realized how prolific it was in mythology, and after that, fate was sealed. I was also having problems with the loose string of Wholeness, and one night I became fascinated by the idea of Wholeness having been made into the World Tree by his father, of Gabriel having a home in Jotunheimr beneath one of the branches, of the fruits and leaves and roots conveying immortality, youth, and wisdom to the gods and humans who partook.

10) Behold I create new heavens and a new earth. "For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind." Isaiah 65:17 (KJV) This verse is what started the true formation and basis of the back story for _The Different_. It's one of the earliest religious citations I have scribbled down, and for the life of me, I have no idea how I came across it. But that quote, along with Gabriel's canonical quote of "Sunday dinner" got me to thinking: what if he was being very literal when he said that apocalypses were pretty much a regular event?

11) Coyote. Coyote is a Native American trickster. He has many names and many personas, including creator, teacher, savior, wise man, and fool. Istaqa is Hopi for Coyote-Man.

11.5) Shakti. Hindu. The Great Divine Mother. Kali is one of her forms. I very much wanted to include Kali far more than the bleak three mentions she is given in _The Different_. When I first started plotting the story, she had a far greater role, but every time I tried to include her, it became bitter and angry. I wasn't able to do justice to whatever feelings Gabriel has/had/still has for her, and thus Gabriel avoiding the conflict they would have by avoiding her. I would imagine Coyote's discretion in the storytelling is a result of knowing Gabriel and Kali still have unresolved issues.

12) Bernie Madoff. An article from NY Mag tells how in Butner, Madoff is something of a celebrity. "In the context of prison, he isn’t a cancer on society; he’s a success, admired for his vast accomplishments. 'A hero,' wrote Robert Rosso, a lifer, on a website he managed to found called convictinc.com. 'He’s arguably the greatest con of all time.'" When I was thinking of how tricksters might react to the knowledge that Loki was really Gabriel in disguise, that quote immediately came back to me, because, yes, I could see them having that very same reaction. <http://nymag.com/news/crimelaw/66468/>

13) Barber-surgeon. More of an historical aside than an endnote, during the middle ages, surgery was not connected with the doctors/healers (who were often priests and clergy), but with barbers. A papal decree forbade priests to conduct surgery ('involving burning or cutting'), and since barbers were already good with razors… Come for a trim, stay for a letting! The traditional barber's pole is one of the last remaining connections modern barbers have with the old barber-surgeons' guilds. When looking for a random medieval profession to toss Gabriel into, the barber-surgeon seemed to fit him just fine.

14) Guardian spirits. Zoroastrian. "And his guardian spirits (fravâhar) of warriors and the righteous, on war horses and spear in hand, were around the sky; such-like as the hair on the head is the similitude (ângunî-aîtak) of those who hold the watch of the rampart. And no passage was found by the evil spirit, who rushed back; and he beheld the annihilation of the demons and his own impotence, as Aûharmazd, _did_ his own final triumph, producing the renovation _of the universe_ for ever and everlasting." - Pahlavi Text, Bundahis 6: 3-4

15) Erse. Name for Scots-Gaelic in Fergus MacLeod's time. The irony is that Crowley's first language was most likely English given the language distribution in the far north-east of Scotland. However, I find it likely that he _did_ speak and read Erse back in the day given his profession. And also, Gabriel's being a bit bitchy because Crowley and Bobby summoned something from a prior creation.

16) Thunderbirds. A supernatural Native American bird-creature capable of creating lightning, thunder, rain, hail, storms. They are fierce, intelligent, and powerful. In a lovely connection with the Zoroastrian parts of _The Different_ , the Lakota believe in old times the thunderbirds were responsible for the destruction of monstrous Unhcegila, dragon-like creatures. But hands down, SPN's description and portrayal of the archangels immediately brought to mind thunderbirds.

17) Merrie Monarch. Charles II of England, died Feb. 6, 1685. He liked to party.

18) Francesco Morosini and Bendetto Odescalchi. Doge of Venice and Pope Innocent XI, respectively. The deal referenced is what would become the Holy League in the fight against the Turks.

19) Red Cow. A London pub now known as the Town of Ramsgate, located very close to Execution Dock and where Ramsgate fishermen sold their catch. Supposedly named after a redheaded barmaid with a very bad temper.

20) Bobby's phone call. How did he figure out that the mysterious stranger that saved him and Crowley was Gabriel, the Trickstery Archangel? And that Hel was after the boys? He's just that good.

21) Azazel's brat. Meg, of course. She's a slippery one, that scuddery little Nephilim.

22) "I am infinite and eternal." Hindu, Shiva. "You pervade all the quarters and the intermediate directions. Thou art the universe, secondless, the infinite and the eternal. Even when this universe become extinct, there is no loss to You, just as there is no detriment to space (within a pot), when the pot is broken." - Shiva Gita, 7:34

Chapters 6 and 7 both had a major influence of my perception of Death as Shiva, and the writing of this passage. 6:30 reads: " I am truly the Praṇava (Omkāra), one, eternal and ancient because I lead (pious souls) upwards (to heaven) and send them down (when their merit is exhausted)."

One-fourth of creation is from Revelation 6:8. "et ecce equus pallidus et qui sedebat desuper nomen illi Mors et inferus sequebatur eum et data est illi potestas super quattuor partes terrae interficere gladio fame et morte et bestiis terrae"

23) Aṛta. Truth. Zoroastrian and Hindu. Asha/ Aṛta / ṛta is all-encompassing, divine Truth. Fire is connected with Aṛta, as well as with Loki and Gabriel (Yoma 21b). Asha is the name of one of the Amesha Spentas (Asha Vahishta, meaning Best Truth).

24) Ksa. Lakota, 'Wisdom'. This is the one place where I fudged mythology a little bit more than anywhere else. Ksa is the son of Inyan ('Rock'), the Creator. Wakinyan, the thunderbird(s) was/were also created by Inyan, but in some tales are Inyan's companion. Sometimes Ksa is specifically stated as Wakinyan's brother.

Ksa, through a misadventure leading to punishment, became Iktomi, the Spider-Man trickster. Iktomi is a shapeshifter, and has a propensity to use his powers against gods and humans alike. He is a friend to Coyote and is both loved and feared, for he either can bring aid or disaster. He is responsible for weaving the dream catcher, and an interesting sidenote is the belief that Iktomi's web can be construed to be the Internet and telephone network.

Fire serpents is from Enoch 20:7; "Gabriel, one of the holy angels, who presides over Ikisat, over paradise, and over the cherubim." Color red is (apparently) from Zorah 1:99a.

25)Nephilim and the fall of the Watchers. Enoch 1, Chapter 10. The fate of the Nephilim - that 1/10th became demons in Hell, is from Jubliees 10:8-9 - "And the chief of the spirits, Mastêmâ, came and said: 'Lord, Creator, let some of them remain before me, and let them harken to my voice, and do all that I shall say unto them; for if some of them are not left to me, I shall not be able to execute the power of my will on the sons of men; for these are for corruption and leading astray before my judgment, for great is the wickedness of the sons of men.' And He said: Let the tenth part of them remain before him, and let nine parts descend into the place of condemnation.'"

26)Fárbauti and Laufey. Parents of Loki. Loki was 'born' when, in a fit of rage, Fárbauti one day struck Laufey/Nál with a lightning bolt. There is a disputed nature-myth interpretation to this with Loki's connection with fire, as Nál means needle, Laufey may mean leaves and Fárbauti is 'cruel striker' (with lightning, remember!)

27)Mím is Mímir, the decapitated head of a Jǫtunn Odin magically keeps alive for its renowned wisdom. This is another place I fudged since there is no record or intimation that Angrboða is related to him in any way.

28) Bale Worker (Bölverkr) and Skollvaldr (Ruler of Treachery). Kennings specifically for Odin, usually said by Jǫtunns in the Eddas and stories. I'll admit, this part was rather uncomfortable for me to write, because I was writing from the losing point of view. And when the Eddas are read from that point of view, the Æsir treatment of the giants had a great deal of racial discrimination under- and overtones.

29) Vicious and humiliating truths. This is a reference to the _Lokasenna_ , or _The Flyting of Loki._ I was originally going to go into much greater detail, but it dragged the story pacing down. Loki's flyting is a truly vicious piece (and can be found here: <http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/poe/poe10.htm>), especially when taken in context of Gabriel. If this section hadn't been from Coyote's perspective, I would have relished going deeper with it.

30) Lilith. While doing early researching, I ran across a few fascinating theories on Lilith originally being the bride of God. I was unduly intrigued because of SPN's history between Lilith and Lucifer. I'd been working on reconciling a rough timeline of events in Judeo-Christian history (I know, pity me) and kept coming to the conclusion that Lucifer didn't really seem to have anything to do with the fall of the Grigori/Watchers. Also, the show doesn't seem to lend that much credence, either. Azazel had no clue where Lucifer's cage was, though non-fallen angels did (well, so it was made out). So where did Lucifer's caging come in? Enter page 59 of _Tree of Souls: the Mythology of Judaism_ by Howard Schwartz, and a few more internet pages I lost. What if Lucifer stole Lilith from his Father? I couldn't let that go. This is very possibly the one part of _The Different_ I might consider blasphemous.

Just remember, though: somebody else said it first.


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